


Returning In Fire and Blood

by frostedarsenic (thebittermountain)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alys Arryn Lives, Ashara Dayne Lives, BAMF Elia Martell, Bisexual Elia Martell, Elia Martell Deserves Better, Elia Martell Lives, F/F, F/M, Gen, Good Viserys Targaryen, Gregor Clegane is His Own Warning, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Lyanna Stark Lives, M/M, Minor Ashara Dayne/Brandon Stark, Minor Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Minor Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Past Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Prophecy, Prophetic Visions, Queen Elia Martell, Queen Lyanna Stark, R Plus L Equals J | Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen are Jon Snow's Parents, Referenced Denys Arryn/Original Female Character, Referenced Elbert Arryn/Original Female Character, Referenced Elys Waynwood/Alys Arryn, Referenced Lysa Tully Arryn/Petyr Baelish, Rhaella Targaryen Lives, Rhaenys Targaryen Lives, Robb Stark is not called Robb Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28643937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebittermountain/pseuds/frostedarsenic
Summary: A Mad King, a winter rose stolen by a dragon, a rebellion against the throne...You may recognize this story. At first. But magic is waking, and so are its bearers. Some things must change. Some, unfortunately, will stay the same.But the dragons will return. In Fire and Blood. From the Ice.
Relationships: Aemon Estermont/Aemma Baratheon, Amarra Dondarrion/Rogar Baratheon, Brynden "Blackfish" Tully/Daeron Targaryen (Son of Aegon V), Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Elia Martell/Lyanna Stark, Jon Arryn/Celia Tully, Lucerys Velaryon (Lord of the Tides)/Original Female Character(s), Lucerys Velaryon/Tanselle Gargalen, Maegor Targaryen (Son of Aerion)/Original Character(s), Maegor Targaryen/Marja Arryn, Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Petra Mallister/Turyn Arryn, Ryella Royce/Argorn Arryn, Ryella Royce/Original Male Character(s), Stannis Baratheon/Janna Tyrell
Comments: 39
Kudos: 27





	1. The Dreamer(s) Reborn

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Waking the Dragons](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/739761) by DragonsKing83. 



_283 AC—a watchtower, the Red Mountains, Dorne_

She watched with concerned bemusement at first as Elia looked frantically around the chamber before shooing Rhaenys out the door, hissing,

“Run, my little sun, run as fast as you can, and don’t look back!” Her concern only grew as Elia picked up Lady Velaryon’s son and hid the babe’s face against her chest. The other woman seemed about to run herself when the door the watcher knew led to Elia’s own bedchamber crashed open, revealing two men with bloodied swords and malice-filled grins.

Elia screamed, and the watcher screamed alongside her. When the giant of the two—who could only be the “Mountain” Ser Clegane that Rhaegar had knighted not even two years past—advanced toward Elia, the watcher tried to stop him. She had known well her strength would be futile against such an uncommonly strong man, but what she had not expected was to go straight through him as if she was a ghost or haunt.

The watcher gaped in horror, only able to watch as Elia pleaded for the children’s lives. Her heart chilled as the Mountain chuckled cruelly, and yanked the babe from the other woman’s arms. As Elia crumpled, sobbing, to the chamber floor, still begging for the children’s sake, the Mountain slammed little Lord Velaryon’s head against the wall. The watcher screamed, but her screams went unheard. The horrible excuse for a knight merely snickered, shaking the gore of crushing the babe’s skull from his hand, and walking unhurriedly toward Elia, who—though still teary—was backing away as quickly as she could, eyes wide with shock and horror.

“Don’t worry your little head now, _Princess_ ,” the Mountain said mockingly, “You will soon be reunited with your brats, thanks to Ser Lorch and I. Now stop being silly, and trying to get away. You’ll only make it worse for yourself.”

When leaping forward to scratch out Clegane’s eyes did nothing, the watcher tried to look away, tried to grant Elia a death with dignity, but some _thing_ , some _force_ kept her eyes frozen on the horrific scene before her.

She knew the vision would haunt her until the end of her days.

* * *

_283 AC—Starfall, the Torrentine, Dorne_

“Rhaenys?” the watcher whispered. The little girl with her mother’s black hair and father’s purple eyes didn’t turn around, continuing to race through the Red Keep, her small body shuddering with the exertion.

From behind them, the watcher heard the heavy thuds of an armored soldier, and she shivered. She continued to shadow her young cousin, though her unease continued to rise. Why, by all the gods, would Rhaenys be running for her life—for she had no doubt that was the case—deep inside the Red Keep? Had the King lost all semblance of decency that he would become a Kinslayer in order, if not in deed?

The little girl dove through an open door as the footsteps grew louder. The room within that door was richly appointed. The mainly red and black décor marked it as a room belonging to the royal family. The painting hanging in a place of honor, painted in the realistic style favored by the Targaryen, and picturing the Crown Princess and her favorite lady, marked it as the bedchamber of the Crown Prince.

Rhaenys scrunched herself under her father’s bed as the watcher observed, the footsteps growing ominously louder. The watcher prayed to even the gods she didn’t believe in that the source of those footsteps would pass by the room.

They almost did.

As the watcher was breathing a sigh of relief, an oily-sounding voice rang out.

“Come out, come out little princess! Don’t make me have to look for you!” The watcher held her breath, but Rhaenys didn’t move—she could barely hear the little girl breathing. The footsteps paused, and she tensed, hoping and praying that the man behind those footsteps wouldn’t enter the room.

Her hopes were thoroughly dashed as a short, nondescript man with the scorpion of House Lorch etched on his leather jerkin walked through the open doorway. As he walked toward the bed, the watcher stood in his way, but he walked right through her as if she were simply air.

The watcher yelled and screamed, throwing curses and other ill-wishes upon the man, but nothing stopped him as he knelt to peer under the Crown Prince’s bed, and proceeded to pull a wildly fighting Rhaenys out from the dark space.

When he finished his gruesome task, only Rhaenys tear-streaked face was still recognizable.

The grief-stricken and horror-filled watcher knew this scene would be dancing through her nightmares for years to come.

* * *

_283 AC—The Red Keep, King’s Landing, the Crownlands_

Blood soaked the bed linens as Rhaella screamed, squeezing little Viserys’ hand so tightly she was like to break it, but asides a grimace, the young boy made no complaint, his eyes wide as he watched his mother give birth.

The watcher wondered with concern where Dragonstone’s Maester—or even a local midwife—was. Rhaella should not be giving birth with only her younger son and a lone servant for company. Viserys shouldn’t even be in the room, properly.

She winced as the elder woman’s screams grew in volume, and worried as blood continued to color the white sheets an ominous red.

Finally, Rhaella birthed a little girl, the babe already having a headful of the same white hair as her mother. Rhaella smiled, and the watcher allowed herself a small smile as well, but it was clear the older woman was fading. She could barely pitch her voice high enough to be heard as she said,

“She will be Daenerys. Daenerys the Stormborn. Let her be stronger than I ever was.” The servant rushed to catch the newly-named Daenerys as the queen’s arms fell limp to her sides. Viserys gave his mother a wide-eyed, worried look.

“Mother?” He asked tremulously.

“Be brave, my son. Protect your sister.” Rhaella breathed as the light faded from her eyes.

The watcher stretched out a hand, in an effort to accomplish she knew not what, but her vision began to swirl into a dizzying spiral of color that almost made her sick, taking her away from the newborn princess, her frightened brother, and the dying queen.

When her vision cleared, she looked out upon the coast of Dragonstone. The watcher beheld a scene of devastation and an approaching threat. Though the storm had begun to ebb, the Royal Fleet had been smashed to pieces in its fury. Coming ever closer to the now almost unprotected fortress was the Baratheon Fleet.

The rebels had arrived. There was no hope left. And the watcher wept.

* * *

_283 AC—Winterfell, the North_

Vaella Stark, born Targaryen, barely caught herself before falling out of bed as she snapped out of restless—and somewhat ominous—dreams. Leaning back against her pillow, she worked on regaining control of her panicked breathing. When she was finally somewhat calm, Vaella forced herself out of bed, stumbling to her window.

She sighed. The sky was barely lightening to grey as she watched. It would be unspeakably rude to wake her handmaids and ladies so early. To the home of her husband’s gods—that had become hers as well over the years—it was, then.

With an efficiency and competency few would expect from a princess accustomed to servants, Vaella tightly braided her silvering brown hair, capping the end of each braid with a bronze bead, and pulled on her simplest clothes.

She kneeled silently before the heart tree for hours as she analyzed the pieces of her dreams that had struck her the most.

It was there her youngest grandson—Benjen being prone to early morning prayer and meditation—found her.

“Babushka, what are you doing up so early?” He asked, offering her his arm to lean on as she got up. Vaella was rather grateful for the aid as her knees strenuously protested their position. She tapped his nose with her free one, smiling as he scrunched his face in offense.

“Ba _bush_ ka. I’m _not_ a baby!”

“I know, Benya. You are growing into a proper young man.” Her grandson grinned, his blue eyes—so like she remembered her father’s being before he lost himself in drink—bright and hopeful.

“You really think so, Babushka?”

“I do indeed. After all, you were left in charge of the Keep, were you not?” He straightened with pride as he gave her a smiling nod before sobering.

“Babushka, do you believe Ardek and Lya will come back?” Vaella sighed, her thoughts going to the Starks who _wouldn’t_ be coming home—her son and her eldest grandson—and cursing her gods-forsaken cousin, who, rumor had it, had laughed as he burned the Lord of the North and his heir—Aerys’ own cousins.

“I do not know, Benya. I certainly hope so. Your brother has his best and most loyal men following him. You know Lord Umber and Lord Karstark would lay down their lives for him. Even Lord Bolton would fall defending his liege, if only for the glory it would cover his House in.”

“But what about Lya?” Benjen persisted. Vaella pressed her lips together as they crossed through the inner gate.

“Wherever she is, your sister is a fighter, Benya. I am certain she will do her best to return home.” _As long as her temper doesn’t overpower her good sense_ , Vaella added to herself grimly.

“Yes, babushka,” Benjen said, his face as grim as hers felt. She squeezed his hand comfortingly as they were surrounded by the early morning noise of a regional fortress.

“Benya, we know your sister went with the Prince willingly. We know she is as loved by the Princess as much as by him. The war is not your fault. It is the fault of whoever lied to Branya and Lord Baratheon. It is the fault of Aerys, who burned your father and brother alive. Arguably it is even the Prince’s fault for falling prey to his sense of drama rather than keeping Lyanna as one of his wife’s ladies, and _then_ asking for her betrothal to Lord Baratheon to be set aside.” He looked unconvinced, so Vaella abruptly halted, forcing her grandson to turn and look back at her. She raised her hands to grip his firmly, and looked him straight in the eyes.

“Benya. You are twelve name-days. You are still a _child_. A competent child, but still, no adult. You could not have stopped Lyanna running off with her Prince nor Lord Baratheon and your brother losing their common sense, and _none_ of this is your fault. Do you understand me?”

Her grandson mumbled something and looked down; his face flushed.

“Do you understand me, grandson?” She lifted a hand off his shoulder to tip his chin back up. “Benjen. I said, do you understand me?”

“…yes, babushka.” He said finally, with great reluctance

“Good. Now, let us go break our fast, and I will tell you a bit of what had me up so early in the godswood.”

* * *

_283 AC—Starfall, The Torrentine, Dorne_

Rhae Dayne opened the letter from her great-niece with a frown. It had been years since they communicated regularly, and now she and Vae were on opposite sides of a war—not that she blamed the Starks. Not after her great-nephew had burned Vae’s son and strangled her eldest grandson. The Baratheons were less excusable, even if Lord Baratheon and Lady Lyanna were betrothed.

In any event, this letter from Vae was peculiar in its timing, and she had a feeling the words within were like to be just as peculiar.

She was not disappointed.

_Aunt Rhae,_

_I know you have every reason to burn this letter, after the hash my granddaughter and Rhaegar have made of their elopement and how they embarrassed Dorne—even inadvertently. All I can say is I believe they trusted the wrong people, and that the realm has grown ever more precarious since Duskendale. But enough about that._

_My dreams have been restless ever since Lyanna and Rhaegar disappeared. This last night was the worst. They sent me to the godswood to try to clear my mind. I have to wonder if any of our blood have dreamed as well. I am sorry to be so blunt, but you did teach me after all, and I have to believe the timing of my dreams reawakening means_ something.

_I have only seen fragments, but they worry me. I saw Cousin Elia screaming as Ser Clegane advanced on her, little Rhaenys diving into Uncle Aemon’s old bedchamber and under a bed, and Cousin Rhaella in a blood-soaked bed. I saw the bright green of wildfire, like the goblet Uncle Aerion drank, but brighter, blow Dragonstone to pieces. I saw dragons terrorizing Westeros._

_Aunt Rhae, tell me, could any of these be true Dreams? And if they are, what are we to do?_

_I am sorry to lay such a burdensome letter upon you._

_Loving regards,_

_Vaella Stark of House Targaryen,_

_Lady Dowager_

Rhae shivered, knowing full well that her niece had seen true, for Rhae had seen scraps of possible futures in her own dreams: Aerys being stabbed through the back by a Kingsguard, her granddaughter Elia being brutally murdered, seven dragons hatching from burning wildfire, Viserys and Daenerys escaping on a rickety boat, a shrouded Rhaenys and Elia being placed before a Lord Baratheon seated on the Iron Throne, and her great-grandson through the Gargalens being hailed as a second son of Elia and Rhaegar.

But it was not only her own dreams that convinced her. Ashara had woken screaming from her own vision not even a week ago, Arthur had sent a panicked letter detailing his and La-Princess Lyanna’s dreams, her nephew Daeron had sent a messenger from the Stepstones with his own concerned letter, Elia had somehow managed a secure one from the capital, and Rhaella had sent one from Dragonstone.

Clearly, something had to be done, for very few of those futures were in anyway good. Somehow, Rhae Dayne of House Targaryen and her fellow Dreamers had to save their House and the future of Westeros.

The question was…how would they do it?


	2. South of the Marches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna gets to know the Daynes, and plans are made

_283 AC—Starfall, Dorne_

Lyanna stepped nervously into the great hall of Starfall, despite Arthur hovering comfortingly close behind her. Neither Lady Ashara nor her grandmother Lady Dayne of House Targaryen had much reason to be fond of her at the moment. Particularly not considering the content of hers and Arthur’s visions. Lyanna at that moment half-wished they’d not come at all.

“Welcome to our humble hall, Crown Princess. And welcome home, brother mine. You look barely a day older than when you swore to the Kingsguard!” As Arthur chuckled, Lyanna stared in wide-eyed shock at the jovial man who—from his appearance and words—was clearly Lord Arran Dayne of Starfall. He bowed deeply to her. Lyanna stood frozen, barely managing a courteous nod. Beside her, Arthur clicked his tongue, and squeezed her shoulder gently before advancing forward to speak to his brother.

“Arran, I fear you may have broken our Princess. She was concerned she would be ill-welcome here for the Prince’s recklessness and the disappearance of the letters she thought to send. Your courtesy has well shocked her.”

“ _Arthur!_ ” she hissed, more than a bit irritated and mortified when he dismissed her reprimand with a shrug. Before she could continue, however, Lady Ashara and an elderly woman with silver-streaked dark hair who bore a close resemblance to Lady Ashara, appeared beside Lord Dayne. Both women were smiling, though the elder—who had to be Lady Dayne—had her smile slightly muted by a deep furrowing of her brow.

“Princess Lyanna. You can’t imagine I have forgotten your closeness with my cousin as well as the Prince?” Lyanna’s cheeks grew hot at Lady Ashara’s words, though she knew in Dorne that no one would shame her for liking both men and women equally.

“Still, Lady Ashara. My involvement with the Prince, and the events I helped—even unintentionally—to set forth, have caused no end of trouble for Elia, and could cause no end of suffering in the future. You are her closest friend, and Lady Dayne her grandmother. Surely my presence is an imposition.” Though she had winced at some of Lyanna’s words, Lady Ashara still shook her head.

“Princess Lyanna, you could _never_ be an imposition in our hall.”

“And your visions are why we invited you here with Arthur,” Lady Dayne finally spoke, the Crownlands lilt of her voice sounding achingly familiar to Babushka Vaella’s own faded accent.

* * *

As Lyanna, still rather flabbergasted, followed Lady Ashara to the rooms she was given—discussion and planning being put off until the next day—she almost ran into the older woman as she stopped suddenly.

“Princess, there is something _I_ must tell you.” Lyanna blinked.

“What?” The other woman fiddled with one of her dangling curls, seeming almost nervous.

“I…well. Curse it, I’ll just show you!” And with that, the older lady grabbed Lyanna’s wrist, and dragged her to a chamber she rapidly recognized as a nursery. Lady Ashara bent over a crib, and came up cradling a little girl, a smile that was just a tad too bright on her face.

“Crown Princess Lyanna Targaryen, meet your niece, Myriah Stark.” Lyanna gasped, drawing closer. Her heart melted as she took in the toddler’s appearance. Myriah had Brandon’s sandy blonde hair, and his long Stark face, combined with Ashara’s purple eyes and darker skin. She was adorable.

“May I hold her?” She asked. Lady Ashara seemed to relax slightly.

“Of course. She should know her aunt.” Lyanna held her arms out, and Lady Ashara gently placed Myriah within them. Her little niece stared up at her curiously, clearly taking her measure.

After a moment, Myriah babbled something and gave her a smile mostly full of teeth before grabbing at one of the thin, dangling braids hanging around Lyanna’s face. She giggled, and let the toddler grasp the braid firmly before shifting her so it would be harder for Myriah to yank the braid painfully. Then she looked up at Lady Ashara.

“When…?” Lady Ashara sighed, her brief smile bittersweet.

“Shortly before you eloped with Rhaegar. I learned of Brandon’s death the day after Myriah screamed into the world. She has her father’s lungs.” Lyanna swallowed.

“I’m sorry.” Lady Ashara shook her head.

“Please. Don’t be. Brandon was always hot-tempered. At least I knew him and wed him before everything fell apart. It’s not your fault he didn’t stop to think before rushing off to confront a King who’s known for burning and torturing people. I have no doubt Lord Stark tried his best to dissuade him.” Lyanna sighed, the lump still choking her throat.

“Still,” she managed. “Branya would have had no reason be angered if I had convinced Rhaegar to wait.”

Ashara shook her head, brow furrowed.

“Let us stop passing around blame, Princess. We cannot change the past, only the future.” Lyanna nodded, though guilt still pinched at her heart.

“Very well,” she said, and kissed the top of Myriah’s head. Carefully removing the braid from her niece’s small hand, she returned her back to her mother’s arms. As Myriah settled more or less happily back into Lady Ashara’s arms, she cleared her throat. The older woman looked up from smiling down at her daughter.

“Princess?” Lyanna grimaced.

“Lady Ashara. You are my goodsister and Elia’s best friend. Call me Lyanna?” Lady Ashara blinked at her. After a somewhat long silence, she said,

“Alright. But then you must call me Ashara, Lyanna.”

* * *

Lyanna sat down with the Daynes for an evening meal, her head whirling. Still, she was not so distracted by the mess of her thoughts that she didn’t notice when Lord Dayne—Lord Arran, he had insisted—sent away all the servants.

The Lord of Starfall leaned forward, his features shadowed.

“We must make plans—and establish who has been having the same dreams.” Lyanna blinked, shocked.

“Who else has been dreaming?”

“Lady Vaella, Grandmother, my sister, Queen Rhaella, Princess Elia, and Prince Daeron. We have heard nothing from Lady Baratheon, but I would not be surprised if she isn’t having dreams as well.” Lyanna swallowed, feeling more than slightly overwhelmed. She wasn’t sure she appreciated having so many confirmations that her dreams were not just dreams. She looked down, picking at her flatbread for something to occupy her hands.

“How will we keep Elia and Rhaenys alive?”

“By sneaking into the capital,” Ashara said firmly. Lyanna gave her a wry look.

“With what men, Ashara?” The older woman rolled her eyes.

“Arran will lend us men, and we have the most legendary knights alive sworn to you.” Lyanna felt her cheeks heat.

“I couldn’t ask—” Lord Arran cut her off.

“You are our cousin, Princess Lyanna. And likely carrying the heir to the Seven Kingdoms, aside. There is no need to ask.” She sputtered helplessly, but gave in.

“Very well. I assume we will sail to arrive in time?”

“You assume correctly.” She nodded in acknowledgement, and forced herself to eat a mouthful of flatbread topped with lentils, though it tasted like naught but ash to her. After struggling through a few more bites, she pushed her serving away.

“I appreciate your loyalty to the Crown, Lord Arran, much as I feel _I_ do not deserve it. But I must ask, how are we to manage this? I could not prevail upon His Highness of Dorne to lend us ships, given what I have thrown his sister into, nor would I ask you to put yourself in such an awkward position with your liege lord.” To her surprise, the Lord of Starfall chuckled.

“Princess Lyanna. My grandmother has told you we are in communication with Prince Daeron, who has controlled the Stepstones for the last quarter-century. He is sending three of his fleet, and his paramour along with them.” Lyanna blew out a breath, something inside of her relaxing just the smallest bit at such clear planning.

“Once again, I must afford you my deepest thanks, Lord and Lady Dayne,” she said, bowing shallowly from her seat. Lady Dayne clicked her tongue, and shook her head slightly, a faint smile on her face.

“As my grandson said, you are both family and one of our sovereigns, Princess Lyanna. There is no need for thanks. Now, please. Get some rest, and we will discuss the future further tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this universe, Lyanna was born in 261, and so is between Brandon and Eddard in age. She is twenty-two, and so two years younger than Rhaegar, and four younger than Elia. Much less disturbing. 
> 
> Rhae Targaryen Dayne is Elia's grandmother through her father, a younger Dayne son.


	3. Between the Narrow and the Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plans begin, and Lya sets sail with some allies.

_283 AC—approaching the Bay of Starfall_

Brynden observed the sea ahead of him with a Myrish eye, partially to settle his thoughts. The steersman knew what he was doing well enough, there was a sailor in the crow’s nest, and the weather was clear. There wasn’t precisely a need for Brynden to keep a navigational eye out himself.

He wished Daeron could have come with him, but he knew very well why his paramour could not. Besides needing to find a trustworthy second to Steward while the both of them were gone, Daeron needed to be able to send most of the fleet to the capital or Dragonstone if needed. Which would be considerably more difficult from Starfall, to say the least.

Nonetheless, Brynden sighed as he spotted land through the eye. He _hated_ politics. Why did it have to be so Sevens’ damned easy for the decisions of the Royal family to shatter the Kingdoms?

* * *

_283 AC—Starfall, the Mouth of the Torrentine, Dorne_

Brynden blinked in surprise.

“I suppose I should have believed the letters the Crown Prince and Queen sent to Daeron.”

The—extremely pregnant—young princess before him laughed heartily.

“Well met, Ser Tully. Perhaps you should have. I am relieved that _those_ at least were not lost.” She said breathlessly once recovering herself.

“Ser Brynden, please. I assume you are behind these plans?” To his surprise, she shook her head.

“No, not entirely. It is Lady and Lord Dayne who machinated most of them.” She hesitated, her bright eyes darkening.

“Ser Brynden. Did Prince Daeron tell you of his _dreams_?” The princess emphasized the last word, and his stomach sank.

“Aye, he did. And then I myself scryed in the old pools of Bloodstone, your highness. I understand—if others have been having such dreams—why Daeron wishes me to aid you and Princess Elia.” She blinked, clearly caught by surprise.

“Ser Brynden, I was unaware the Tullys had such a gift.” He shrugged uncomfortably.

“I’d call it a curse, more like, but it is rare and requires sacrifice. I would not share it with those I thought careless.” She grimaced, her eyes holding unexpected understanding.

“Ah, the prices of being of the First Men.” He nodded, once again surprised.

“Aye, my princess.” Lord Dayne broke into the resulting silence.

“Ser Tully, would you and your captains break bread and salt with us? Then we can continue to organize our plans and preparation.” Brynden nodded, turning to encourage forward the men Daeron had bid him bring.

* * *

_283 AC—the Narrow Sea, rounding the Arm of Dorne_

Lyanna tried earnestly to settle the rising of her gorge, but she was ultimately—and mortifyingly—unsuccessful. _At least the contents of her stomach landed off the side of the ship, not on the deck_ , she thought somewhat balefully, her stomach finally deciding to temporarily settle after expelling what little had been in it.

“Traveling by sea does not agree with you, I take it, Your Highness?” She jumped, before turning to face the source of the wry comment and glaring at him.

“Ser Brynden, how would _you_ fare if you were almost nine moons with child?” He winced.

“Point taken, Princess. Would you appreciate a distraction?” She leaned against the rail.

“ _Absolutely_ , Ser. What did you have in mind?”

“I was wondering…” he trailed off, hesitating, and she raised a brow at him, either unease or the babe curdling her stomach.

“Continue, good Ser. You shall not anger me.” He gave her a skeptical look, but shrugged before continuing.

“Princess Lyanna, why did you elope with the Crown Prince?” She stiffened for a moment before giving him a rueful smile.

“‘Twasn’t him who first caught my eye.” Evidently, what she had admitted took a moment to settle in, for Ser Brynden nodded and looked out over the sea before giving her a double take. She covered her mouth to hide a small laugh.

“The North—I thought—but,” he stuttered. It was futile to hide her amusement, so Lyanna dropped her hand.

“Ser, the Old Gods do not care who we lie with. They have more important things to worry about, as do most gods.” Ser Brynden blinked, looking quite as if he had had a rather heavy tree branch hit him soundly in the face. She patted his arm in a manner that was more made with intent to comfort than to mock, though the action held a tinge of the latter, and then promptly had the need cover her mouth for a yawn.

“Ser, I find myself tired as well as distracted. Was there any other answer you wished of me before I retire?” He looked sheepish, though significantly less flabbergasted.

“Two, in fact.” She waved a careless hand.

“Ask them both.”

“What happened to the letters you mentioned at Starfall? And…if you first formed a connexion with the Crown Princess, then why did the Crown Prince crown you at Harrenhal?” She sighed.

“You do not pull your strikes, do you Ser Brynden?” His lips twitched, and he said drily,

“I never have, my Princess. Much to my brother’s frequent chagrin.” Lyanna pressed her lips together at the mention of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands.

“This...may not be an easy thing to hear, Ser. I was at Riverrun when I posted them. I tied the pouches to the ravens myself, and left copies with my accomplice of a baby brother.” Ser Brynden’s face—unsurprisingly—went red as he opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, adopting a stony expression. Despite the tenseness of the situation, Lyanna couldn’t help but yawn again. She _truly_ was tired. “I do not know who is behind the fate of either set. It could be Maesters, it could be bandits, it could even be a bunch of hotheads too full of righteous anger to listen to a woman,” she managed through the expression of exhaustion.

Ser Brynden sighed.

“But it could have also been my brother, with his suspicions and ambitions.” She nodded regretfully.

“I doubt we will ever know the answer. But, as for your other question, well. Elia and I have corresponded since we met in White Harbor during her tour of Westeros.” Her lips twitched despite herself. “I believe my father was hoping she would instill the qualities of a Southron lady in me. Needless to say, his hopes were in vain. Rhaegar, on the other hand…he was looking for a new wife regardless, and he saw me as the fulfillment of his precious prophecies.” Ser Brynden was grimacing.

“He didn’t—?” He cut himself off, but Lyanna had a feeling she knew what he had intended to ask, and was already shaking her head.

“He is a deeply flawed man, and not a good Prince, but he has more respect for women than that, if only because of his mother’s trials.” She sighed. “Elia and I ripped into him after the tourney, I for his lack of respect for her, his _wife_ , and Elia for the political mess he had just thrown us all into.”

“…How _did_ he explain it?” She dragged a hand down her face, feeling _beyond_ tired as she relived the conversation.

* * *

_“I know you are betrothed, Cousin Lyanna,” Rhaegar responded after she and Elia had shouted themselves hoarse at him. All three of them ignored the two Kingsguard_ _warily_ _poking their heads in. Lyanna glared at him._

_“_ _Do_ not _call me cousin, Prince Rhaegar. You do not have that right currently.” She put her hands on her hips, continuing to glare. “_ If _you are so aware of that, why did you humiliate the both of us with that crown? You know well that the only acceptable options for you are your wife, your mother, or one of your elderly cousins._ Not _me.” Rhaegar looked apologetic, but his next words made her want to set his beautiful hair on fire._

_“Your humiliation is unimportant in the long run. As is the displeasure of the realm.” He ducked as a ceramic perfume bottle sailed toward his head._

_“How_ dare _you be so obliviously careless,_ darling _husband?” Elia hissed, her dark eyes flashing, and her face flushed with fury, a few curls springing out from under her veil. Despite the occasion—and her own considerable ire—Lyanna couldn’t help but think her beloved looked especially beautiful at that moment. “You will be_ King _after your Father, and some days I despair of you ever learning political understanding, Or a comprehension of the personalities of others,” she continued. “If you are so set on having a male heir, there are better options. If you want the throne to stay in our direct line, I would accept a marriage between Viserys and our daughter. More importantly, so would the Faith.”_

_“Eli—” He tried, but she cut him off, pacing toward him with a threatening air._

_“If you so desired my paramour, you should have asked her. Discreetly. Instead of that public fucking mess.” They both stared at Elia, for she rarely cursed. Her lips twitched, but that was the only break in her furious mien._

_“It isn’t that,” Rhaegar said finally, after a long moment of silence._

_“Then_ what _is it?” They both snapped at him._

_“There is a prophecy…” He said quietly. Elia scoffed at him._

_“Not_ that _again. Has Great-Uncle Aemon been encouraging your delusions again?” He flushed brightly, for Elia had hit a sore point of his._

_“This one is different, Elia.” He persevered. Lyanna stared at him just as skeptically as his wife did._

_“Why?”_

_“I have researched it since I found it as a child. I believed it even then, but now…I have been having_ dreams _. Ones where I remember every detail of long after I awake.” Lyanna stared at him, frozen in shock. Close by, she knew Elia was doing the same. Rhaegar, misinterpreting their shocked silences, went to his knees._

 _“_ Please _. Elia, scry the waters if you don’t believe me. Lady Lyanna, ask the green-seer you defended so ably.” They continued to stare at him._

_Finally, Lyanna croaked out,_

_“What did the dreams tell you?”_

_“Why is Lya important within them?” Elia asked him._

* * *

Ser Brynden was gaping at her, looking unfortunately like his sigil, as she finished her tale.

“…Dear gods,” he said finally, “Did you put this explanation in your letters?” She nodded.

“In the ones addressed to those who would believe them, yes.”

“And you believe it’s all going to happen?” She placed a hand over her swollen belly, feeling the babe kick.

“Enough to get with his child.” His face twisted.

“Don’t tell me you will raise a child to slaughter?” She glared at him.

“Of course not,” she said scathingly. “I would _never_ let my child fight alone or grow up unprepared.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was it Hoster or Petyr who disappeared the letters? Or someone else entirely?


	4. Somewhat Further North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The siege of Storm's End and the battle of the Trident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is rather long. You're welcome?

_283 AC—Storm’s End, the Stormlands_

_Do not allow Stannis to fight for his brother on the sea._

The letter was unsigned, but she recognized her brother’s handwriting. And Rhaelle trusted her youngest elder brother, as she trusted few of her family. Relieved and sobered at seeing her dreams being further confirmed, she went to search for her younger son’s wife, Amarra being one of the few people who could get young Stannis to listen, even with their household being split between allegiances.

When she found the younger woman, Amarra was sitting beside a dozing little Renly’s bed, while cradling her own youngest babe, and singing the both of them to sleep. Rhaelle waited in the nursery doorway, content to wait until both the children were asleep.

Amarra looked up after settling little Elenda in her cradle, and frowned.

“Goodmother, what is the matter? Has something changed?” Rhaelle pressed her lips together, and handed her good-daughter the scrap of paper. Amarra read it over quickly, her eyes widening. But she waited until they were enclosed in Rhaelle’s solar before saying another word.

“Mother Rhaelle, you dreamed something, did you not?” She blinked, rather startled at the serious question, and Amarra shook her head, smiling.

“Goodmother, even if I did not have my own family gift, Rogar has told me of his dreams enough to elicit my belief.”

“…very well, Amarra. Yes, I have. And so too has my brother, at the very least. I recognize his script.”

“And you came to me, because I am the only other besides Cressen that Stannis deigns to hear on a regular basis.”

“Indeed.” Amarra was frowning again. She turned to toss the note into the fire, and Rhaelle didn’t stop her—they had far too much a mix of loyalists and rebels under their roof.

“ _Why_ must Stannis not fight on the sea?” Rhaelle shivered as the question called to mind that dream. Somehow, she managed to get the words out. When she was finished, the Dornish cast of Amarra’s complexion was tinged heavily with grey, and Rhaelle herself felt about as sick as her good-daughter looked.

She politely turned away while Amarra purged herself over the balcony railing, and sat down behind her desk. The younger woman soon joined her, looking determined, if still more than bit ill.

“There is another sacrifice my cousins may enact to get their dragons, but as Daeron pointed out, it is likely they will not resort to it if Stannis is put in their path.”

“…Because they have already been outraged by Lord Robert—an opinion they have every right to hold.” Rhaelle nodded, sighing, and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I could strangle my grandson for enabling the Stark fury, and starting this whole mess, so I do not entirely blame them.” Amarra gave her a sympathetic smile.

“While Renly and Stannis are primarily innocent; one too small to cause any harm, and the other who never attended the tourney at all.”

“ _Quite_. I would save all my grandsons if I could, nonetheless, but I can do nothing to change Robert’s at this point, whatever it will be. But I will not make the Queens kinslayers, nor Stannis die in such a gruesome manner.”

“Neither will I,” Amarra said firmly, and Rhaelle finally managed a weak smile.

“Do you think I could tie up Stannis in helping me negotiate with the Tyrells?” Amarra grimaced.

“I can try to convince him, Mother Rhaelle. But there is only so much even _I_ will be able do if Robert wants his brother to conquer Dragonstone.” Rhaelle sighed again, feeling rather tired and ancient.

“I understand. Do your best; that is all I can ask.”

* * *

_283 AC—the Trident, the eastern edge of the Riverlands_

Eddard stood in the campaign tent between Robert and Jon, heart heavy with worry and fury, listening closely as the two older men hashed out their plan of attack. He had never wanted to be here, had never wanted to be put in this position. Robert was his blood, yes, but so was the King—mad and cruel as he was—so too were the Crown Prince, his wife, and the Queen.

All that Eddard wanted was his older sister back. And considering what had happened when Branya demanded her whereabouts, he was doubtful this war would get them any closer to finding her. _But truly_ , he wondered, only half his attention on the argument between Jon and Robert about where the best placement of their bannermen would be, _what else could we have done at this point?_ After Prince Rhaegar hiding his sister away, and giving no hint to where she was, after the King burned his father and strangled his brother, after the King called for Jon to send his and Robert’s heads to the Capital, what else could they do but rebel?

“Do you understand, Ned?” His head jerked up at Jon’s sharp-voiced question.

“Aye, I do.”

* * *

Eddard swallowed as he looked across the Trident, mounted on his horse, and waiting in the loud silence that was a stationary army, for the royal army to appear. He was going to be sick, he _knew_ it. He swallowed again, and tried to focus on the sounds around him—the horses stamping their feet and snuffling, the chilly whistle of the strong breeze, the creak of armor, and the murmurs of anxious men—in an attempt to not lose his morning meal. He _was_ successful, but the uneasiness in his stomach refused to go away. Refusing to disappear as well were the misgivings that had been growing in him ever since Lya slipped into thin air on her way from Branya’s betrothal feast.

She had been so happy that day, he remembered, though she’d viewed their elder brother and his betrothed with skepticism.

* * *

_“Catelyn seems a sweet girl,” His sister said evenly, watching Branya dancing with his betrothed while she held up the wall alongside Eddard._

_“But…?” He asked curiously, sensing there was something she had not added to her compliment. Lya smiled at him, something odd to the expression._

_“She is too devout. I have no doubt she is stubborn enough to survive the North, but neither will she find much welcome in our home.” Eddard wanted to disagree with her, but as he watched his older brother’s relief upon handing the young Lady Tully off to the handsome Lord Mallister, he found he couldn’t. Though Branya often struggled to keep to one bed, in this case it was most certainly because he had no interest in his future wife. Eddard sighed, and turned back to his sister._

_“What are we do when she comes to Winterfell then, Lya?” There was an odd glint to his sister’s eyes as she smirked at him, saying,_

_“I wouldn’t know, Ardek. ‘twill be you and Benya who have to deal with this red trout of the Seven, not I.” He sputtered at her, to no avail._

_Lya merely tossed her head back and laughed heartily, attracting as she always did, the eyes of most of the men present—and quite a few of the women—before holding her hand out to him._

_“Dance with me, Ardek? I wouldn’t want your unknown future wife to be the only one to coax you out onto the dance floor.” He sputtered at her again, glaring, but acceded to her wishes, as he often did._

_She didn’t let him slip away until the bards themselves were trailing off to bed, and mortifyingly walked him back to bed herself._

_“Sleep well, Ardek. I shall see you back at Winterfell.” Even as tired as he was, Eddard blinked in surprise at her turn of phrase._

_“You will not travel back with us?” She grinned at him, shaking her head, her silvery eyes an unearthly bright glow in the gloom._

_“Papa gave me leave to take some of the guards to visit our Blackwood cousins, as long as I brought Tetya Viserra’s name day gifts with me.” Eddard sighed enviously, his suspicion disappearing._

_“Papa spoils you, Lya. Give them my well wishes, will you?” His sister’s mouth twisted as she began to head toward the door. She asked him an odd question as he left._

_“Does he?”_

* * *

A fortnight later, they began to doubt Lya had ever reached Raventree. About two days after that, the rumors about the Crown Prince having stolen her began to spread. Amid protests, Benya had been packed off to Winterfell, and Eddard to the Vale, while Papa tried to settle Branya.

Unsurprisingly, he failed. No one ever could settle his older brother’s temper, not even their father. Leading them to where they were now.

Eddard checked his whip, and adjusted his reins before having to soothe his horse as a yell went up from his warriors. The Prince and his men had arrived.

He hoped he wouldn’t embarrass himself by throwing up, forcibly pushing the nausea down as he turned to his lords—and some ladies.

Raising his sword above his head, he made the most rousing speech he could think of as Robert’s voice boomed out to his own men.

“My lords, my ladies, liegemen! The Throne has robbed us of my father and my brother! The King has committed kinslaying as well as murder. Shall we show them what we Northerners think of such crimes against the gods? Shall we show them the fury of the North?”

“AYE!” His warriors roared out, moving into their positions. Eddard kneed his horse to the front with the other cavalry, half-aware of Lord Ryswell and his elder sons on one side, and Lord Karstark and his brother on his other as a buzzing started in his blood.

While caught in his bloodlust, Eddard almost delighted in the surprise, shock, and confusion caused by his riding. As the battle went on, he noticed the loyalists began to give the Northerners a rather wide berth, seeming to prefer to test themselves against those versed in more familiar styles of fighting.

During a brief lull, he laughed, the sound dark. _Many of those men would die. Why did it so matter to them the manner in which they did?_ He wondered, before twisting to face a Dornish mounted spearman. Interestingly, the other man didn’t seem to be particularly thrown by how Eddard was perched on his horse. Instead, the Dornishman smirked, adjusting his spear.

“So this is why men of the far North do not play in tourneys,” he bantered in heavily lilting Andaii. “Well it is no matter. I shall kill you anyways. It will simply be an interesting challenge.” Eddard resisted the urge to roll his eyes, already gripping the hilt of his kinzhal firmly as he sheathed his sword. The Dornishman charged toward him, spear extended.

Just before it would have stabbed through him, as their horses drew even, Eddard leaped up into the air, somersaulting over the Dornishman. As the ground began rushing toward him, he extended his arm, and sliced deeply into the flank of the Dornishman’s horse. The poor creature screamed, clearly preparing to rear, but Eddard was more focused on landing on his horse. He did, but was—as he generally was when he attempted that maneuver—more than bit winded. His horse whinnied nervously, clearly not enthused about the blood and clashing sounds around them. Eddard reassured the beast before directing it toward the loudest sounds of fighting.

He managed to avoid anymore enthusiastic mounted spearmen, but Eddard was well and bloodied by the time he fought his way toward the mouth of the Trident. Those of his people he managed to spot weren’t doing much better, but were—as he was—holding their own.

He heard Robert, his friend’s booming voice carrying far over the battlefield, though he didn’t manage to catch sight of the older man until he’d sliced his way through quite a few more loyalists. Mostly Dornish for some peculiar reason—he would have expected more Crownish fighters, considering the location of the battle—but the exceptions were far more memorable.

All of Eddard’s vassals had responded to his call to arms, even the Boltons and the far Skagosi houses. He had not realized how divided the other Kingdoms were, until this battle, for the bulk of each side had not gathered so in earlier battles, all perhaps sensing that now would be the final determination of how the rebellion would end, with the Crown Prince finally showing his face.

The Graftons had not given up their loyalty to the Crown despite Robert’s taking of Gulltown, as evidenced by the Grafton man whose throat he cut. Despite Lord Grandison’s change in allegiance, the young Grandison who Eddard stabbed in the gut before beheading him as a mercy was evidence that the House was torn between loyalties—as was the Stormlands. He had to slide down the side of his horse to avoid a well-aimed arrow from a Goodbrook archer, and did not envy his new good-father’s task in reuniting the Riverlands if they succeeded.

Eddard swung up onto his horse’s back again in time to block a sword swing from a man he guessed to be Lord Tarly, from the distinctive looking Valyrian great-sword the older man wielded. It was a furious fight, and there were several times he quite thought he was going to lose his life. Finally, though, Lord Tarly raised his sword high enough to leave his torso vulnerable, and Eddard took the opportunity. He ducked close under Lord Tarly’s swing, and stabbed the man deep in the armpit. The elder lord shouted in anger and pain, dropping his sword with a loud clatter, and tried to grapple him with his uninjured arm. Eddard twisted the kinzhal, distracting the other man from noticing as he pulled out his sword, and sliced open the throat of the man’s warhorse. Silently, as the horse collapsed, landing on top of his unprepared master, Eddard asked the gods to honor the sacrifice of an innocent animal.

When he finally got to Robert, he was fighting the Crown Prince in the shallow delta mouth of the ford. A Kingsguard wearing the Darry sigil lay sprawled on the bank, his eyes glazed in death. There were other men on either side of the Trident, but none were fighting, all eyes on the Crown Prince and his Baratheon cousin, locked in combat. Eddard pressed his lips together in a thin line, feeling exhausted. He swung himself off his horse, his coat swirling around him, before tying the beast to a nearby tree and cautiously walking closer.

Neither man kept their helms, but both men looked the image of their ancestors, Prince Rhaegar with the Conqueror’s severe short cut and Valyrian armor, even fighting with a spatha, while Robert’s braided beard and loose mane of dark hair put Eddard in mind of the more famous Storm Kings, particularly with his hammer and minimal armor. His rolling boom of a voice didn’t lessen the impression any either.

“Honor-less, wing-less dragon, you are no cousin of mine!” Robert bellowed, seemingly in response to a comment the Crown Prince had made. Eddard’s mouth twisted as he stepped cautiously and quietly closer, having no desire to distract either man.

Prince Rhaegar had always been a man for peace and books, rather than war, which was one of the reasons his stealing Lya had been so startling. It was rather optimistic—and somewhat naïve—for him to try to dissuade Robert now. He should have reappeared earlier, and met with Jon and Eddard if he had desired a calm ear.

Eddard sighed as he came to a halt besides two commanders—one his own, and one Roberts. The two men beside him couldn’t be more different in appearance or demeanor. The Evenstar, Lord Tarth, was a towering, broadly set man, with a full head of silver hair despite only being seven and thirty, had a face well touched by the sun, and a kindly, even-handed manner. Lord Bolton, on the other hand, looked as if he’d never seen the sun, was slight and wiry, shorter than Eddard, who was not possessed of great height himself, and had shining black hair that contrasted with his pallor and ghost grey eyes. He was cold and taciturn in nature as well—Eddard didn’t believe he had ever seen his good-uncle smile.

“How long has this been going on?” Eddard asked quietly as he crossed his arms. Lord Bolton looked briefly up at the sun’s position before returning his gaze to the battling lords.

“Perhaps an hour,” he said in his soft voice.

“And neither has tired?” Eddard asked disbelievingly. The Evenstar shrugged.

“Not visibly, no. Though they started on their horses before each wounded the other’s mortally.”

“They both called a halt to give their horses mercy.” Lord Bolton sounded bemused at such sentiment from Southrons. Or perhaps at sentiment at all—Eddard couldn’t quite decide.

“Did they order all to stay back?” The Evenstar’s mouth twitched, though his gaze was dark as he answered Eddard’s wondering.

“Lord Baratheon shouted ‘No one is to kill the silver-haired cunt except for me’ when anyone stepped in.” He paused, looking over at the dead Ser Darry on the bank. “…And after Ser Jonothor got his chest caved in by Lord Baratheon’s war hammer, well. The royal host on the shores grew wary.”

Eddard sighed, politely ignoring Lord Bolton’s dark chuckle. The Evenstar blew out a breath in seeming commiseration. The three men stood together for a while longer—how long exactly, Eddard could never say.

But eventually, both his foster brother and the Crown Prince seemed to tire of the fight, becoming more aggressive in their attacks. At first it seemed the Prince would win the duel, for he skewered Robert through the knee, eliciting a pained shout from Eddard’s foster brother, who wavered on his feet. The Prince took advantage of Robert’s weakness, and landed what appeared to be a heavy hit across Robert’s chest.

“That had to take some force. I wouldn’t have thought the bookish Silver Prince had it in him,” Lord Bolton said, sounding almost impressed. Eddard declined to acknowledge him. The Crown Prince had erred in his last stroke, however. Robert had—at least for the moment—regained himself, bellowing something, the words of which were lost to him, as he held his hammer aloft, prepared to strike. From the redness of his face, and the tone of the shout, however, Eddard could well imagine what his foster-brother was saying. He’d heard tirades along the same lines often enough over the past year.

The Prince seemed to realize his mistake as Robert’s hammer began to fall. He threw up his sword and greave-armored forearms in attempt to guard himself. For a moment, it seemed to work, though the sound of straining steel as his sword and Robert’s hammer clashed was enough to make Eddard wince, and Lord Bolton twitch.

But then. Well. The Prince slipped on a stone as he backed up to free his sword. It only took Robert a moment to recover, and then his hammer came crashing down. Rubies flew from the Crown Prince’s chest in a macabre mockery of the blood likely now flowing from him. He fell in what felt like slow motion to Eddard, the water splashing furiously around him as he broke the surface.

Robert seemed to stare at his fallen rival—in disbelief or triumph, Eddard could not begin to guess—before toppling himself, half-in, half out of the water. Eddard stared for a moment, frozen, before the loyalist troops let out a cry that called him back to himself. He turned to the Evenstar, whose pallor under his tan mirrored Eddard’s own shock.

“Lord Tarth. Would you find Lord Arryn and some strong Valish or Stormish men? Bring them back here, if you would.” To his considerable credit, the older man moved past his shock, nodding quickly.

“Aye, Lord Stark. I will return as soon as I am able.” He shifted his weight, then hesitated. “Should I spread the news?” Eddard nodded.

“To those you catch, aye, I agree that would be wise.” He glanced over to Lord Bolton—who, expectedly, had no expression on his face at all—and added, “Though I will ask Lord Bolton to spread the word as he gathers up the Northerners.” The unnerving older lord nodded, bowing slightly.

“I will, of course, my lord. Our forces will meet you where we made our camp?” Eddard nodded before turning back to the ford.

To his considerable relief, Robert was conscious when he reached the bank, if barely.

“I got him, Ned. I got the bastard who thought he could steal Lyanna.” Eddard bit the inside of his lip, but nodded, forcing his mouth into a faint smile.

“I know, Rob. I saw. It was quite the impressive spectacle.” That, at least, was completely true. What he had seen of the duel had more than showcased the skills of either man. He sighed, and kneeled next to Robert.

“You must be in pain, I know, but can you move at all, Rob?” His foster-brother grimaced, but somehow managed to pull himself into a sitting position on the highest edge of the bank, pulling his legs the rest of the way out of the water, to Eddard’s sincere relief. Of course, he then promptly passed out. Eddard shook his head, and waved over a boy wearing the Estermont sigil.

“You, keep an eye on your liege lord, while I look at his foe.” The boy nodded, wide-eyed, and rushed over, his subsequently brandished sword held in a way that suggested he—somewhat—knew how to use it, so he straightened and waded over to the Crown Prince.

Much to his disbelief, the Silver Prince was still alive. Barely.

“Lord Ed—Lord Stark,” the older man whispered, sounding wistful, rather than bitter. Eddard opened his mouth, but the Prince ignored him and continued to speak, likely realizing he had little time left. “I am sorry for your Father and brother, my lord. As is Elia. None of that was ever supposed to happen.” Eddard gaped at him before focusing on the least overwhelming surprise in those words.

“My thanks, Prince Rhaegar. But what has the Crown Princess to apologize for? ‘Twas not she who crowned my sister or murdered my father and brother.” The Prince chuckled mirthlessly, coughing up blood, but did not answer Eddard’s question.

“You are a good man, Lord Stark. I am grieved we could never be friends.” Eddard pressed his lips together, unsure what to say.

As silence between them began to stretch on, Rhaegar Targaryen smiled. It was the saddest smile Eddard had ever seen upon anyone’s face. His head fell back into the water, as if he no longer had the strength to hold himself up, and his eyes lost focus, seeing something Eddard could not.

“Eli, Lya. Please forgive me,” he whispered, the expression on his face heart-breaking, and his words so soft Eddard doubted any but him had heard. The bloodied water around them grew murkier, and the life began to fade from the Prince as his mutilated chest rose one more time.

Then it fell, and the land itself seemed to grieve.

Eddard would have thought he was imagining things when the wolf howled, and the waters cried Rhaegar’s name, was it not for the gasp from Lord Umber and Jon. He swallowed as he met their wide-eyed gazes, and shivered with fear when the river held his feet fast.

It only released its grasp when he gingerly gathered the dead Prince in his arms, and lifted him from the river.

* * *

“ _Gods_ ,” Lord Umber said in his thick Northron accent, and Jon Arryn couldn’t quite blame him. What else could you say when magic seemed to be happening before your eyes? He would have loved to deny it, but it was rather hard to deny the river speaking in a Dornish accent, or a wolf in a Northron one. It was even harder to deny it in the face of Ned quite literally being trapped in the shallow ford until he lifted Prince Rhaegar into his arms.

The entire field was silent, and Jon blew out a tired breath, watching—alongside everyone else—as Eddard Stark carried the body of the son of the man who killed his father and brother solemnly out of the river, and respectfully—there truly was no other word for the manner in which he did it—laid the man who stole his sister upon the dry bank.

Then Ned looked up at Jon, and all he could see was a boy. A tired, exhausted boy who had seen more than someone of his years should, but a child nonetheless. And despite his worry about what all of this could mean, what problems this development could cause, there was nothing Jon could do but go to one of his sons in all but blood, and offer comfort.

* * *

_283 AC—the fields before Storm’s End, the Stormlands_

The white banner of parley was unexpected, to say the least. Despite his goodfather’s even mien, Mace could tell Lord Leyton was thrown as well. And when Cousin Paxter arrived following the messenger sent out to the Bay, he could see the confusion written on Paxter’s face.

“Who could convince that stubborn little lordling to treat with us?” His goodbrother asked. Mace shrugged, honestly bewildered.

“I haven’t the faintest clue, cousin. But neither do I think it a trap. Look at their other banners.” The purple lightning of Dondarrion, the turtle of Estermont, and peculiarly the crown’s red dragon, joined the crowned stag of Baratheon. The expressions of his closest men both darkened as Mace pointed this out. Lord Leyton stroked his well-trimmed beard thoughtfully, while Cousin Paxter crossed his arms, and glared belligerently at the white banner. Eventually, though, they came to the same conclusion, the one Mace had already come to, though he had no doubt it was for other reasons than his.

“I advise we accept their parley, my lord Tyrell,” Lord Leyton said first, Paxter nodding in agreement despite wearing a slightly thwarted expression. Mace clasped his hands together with satisfaction.

“I am glad to see my best advisors agree with my decision.” He ignored the quirk in Paxter’s lips before he recovered himself. His cousin knew very well that his mother did _not_ count, for various reasons. One of which being that she made no secret of considering him a bumbling fool. Lord Leyton might be…odd, but at least his goodfather actually had a modicum of respect for him.

He forced himself out of his thoughts as he mounted up, squires following all three of them with their respective banners, and a knight with the white banner of parley in front.

* * *

He did not expect the Storm’s End party to be composed of mostly women. Once he got over his surprise, he promptly felt the fool his mother claimed him to be as he remembered their banners. Lord Rogar had been called to defend the capital when the war broke out, and his wife was a Dondarrion. Lady Aemma’s husband was Ser Aemon Estermont, who had joined the rebels alongside his family. The woman who was the reason for the Targaryen banner, however, had him almost making a rather uncouth statement, as well as feeling rather disgusted with the Baratheons of his father’s generation, and King Aegon.

Thankfully, Lord Leyton had far more presence of mind, and leaped down from his saddle to bow deeply to the still stunning older woman.

“Princess Rhaelle, it is an honor and surprise to treat with you.” She smiled and laughed lightly, holding her hand out for him to kiss. As he rose, Lord Leyton said, his voice holding a tone Mace had never heard before from him, “You do not look a day older than you did at that tourney at Summerhall, Princess, and just as beautiful.” She smiled more deeply at him. Mace politely ignored the faces her daughter and grandson were making, and shared a speaking look with Paxter.

While Lord Leyton and the Princess were distracted with each other, he dismounted, Paxter following him.

“Lord Stannis, an honor,” Mace made a slight bow to the young man ostensibly leading the parley. He restrained the urge to smile as Lord Stannis made it quite clear—with nary a word—that he had no time or patience for pleasantries. After the taunting his men had engaged in before the keep, there was no doubt the young lord would take such amusement precisely the wrong way.

“Lord Tyrell. We finally meet.” Mace nodded silently. After glancing over to where Lord Leyton and Princess Rhaelle had yet to separate themselves, he said,

“That we do, Lord Stannis. May I ask you a question?” His gaze having followed Mace’s over to his grandmother, the younger man took a moment to answer.

“You may ask it,” he said in an even, almost chilly tone.

“My thanks, my lord. Was it you charged with the defenses? Even with the aid of your fortress as a location, they are impressive.” Lord Stannis’ expression froze, his blue eyes becoming icy. Mace hadn’t expected much better from a current adversary, and so was unsurprised when the answer was simply:

“No.”

“I understand, my lord. Would you introduce me to the other members of your parley?” It was only proper, considering it was composed primarily of women. The young lordling nodded sharply, beginning with the indigo-eyed, black-haired, and rather imposing lady whose name Mace knew upon sight.

“Lord Paramount Tyrell of the Mander, High Marshall of the Reach, it is my honor to introduce to you Lady Aemma Estermont of House Baratheon, my paternal aunt.” The Lady Aemma’s curtsey was perfect as any Reachwoman’s, and her voice was surprisingly warm as she said,

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord.” Mace bowed to her, smiling.

“The same to you, my lady.” Lord Stannis quickly continued on, clearly intending to waste no time.

“I make known to you Lady Baratheon, Amarra of House Dondarrion, my good-aunt.” A woman with hair of a ruddy gold, Dornish complexion, and a rather impish twinkle to her eyes made an equally perfect curtsey. Interestingly, while introducing her, Lord Stannis’ voice was the warmest it had been since they had begun speaking.

“An honor, Lady Baratheon,” Mace said after coming up from his bow. She grinned at him, and he sighed internally.

“ _You_ are a pleasant surprise, Lord Tyrell. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted your mother’s declarations.” He kept a pleasant expression on his face by force of will, but couldn’t entirely repress another internal sigh as Lord Stannis began giving him an intrigued look. Much to Mace’s relief, the lordling said not a word on the exchange, and continued introductions.

In addition to two more ladies; Lady Heiress Berenyse Hasty and Lady Carolin Grandison of House Baratheon—a cousin—there were three boys and elderly man. Ronnet Connington and Beric Dondarrion had been fostering before the rebellion broke out, and were shy but straight-backed, which was really all one could expect of two boys not even ten years. Little lord Renly, the youngest of the Baratheon brothers, was less shy in demeanor than his foster-brothers, but just as quiet. Ser Harbert Baratheon, an old relic of more than six and sixty, and a younger brother of late Lord Ormund Baratheon, still retained the booming Baratheon voice. _Though likely only by force of will_ , Mace thought, looking at the man’s rickety frame.

And to a one, the entire party showed the marks of privation, down to little Renly, a boy of six—of an age with his little Garlan—and Mace was hard-pressed not to wince. His little trick of feasting had been beyond cruel, he realized now. It was war, yes, and war was cruel. But to see children and ladies with the marks of starvation…well, it was hard to bear. The ladies were old enough to have made their decisions, but Ronnet, Beric, and Renly were not. Ronnet’s uncle was for the Crown, by the Seven in One! Mace sighed, deciding it a better showing of his internal conflict than fidgeting.

The sound garnered the attention of Lord Leyton and Princess Rhaelle, who seemed to finally be winding their conversation down. The Princess blushed, and Lord Leyton looked sheepish. She opened her mouth, but before she could say a word, Lord Stannis darted over, and whispered into her ear. She nodded at him, smiling fondly, and called over a Baratheon guard, saying something to him that saw the boys settling in the out of season sun with Lady Hasty, Lady Carolin, Ser Harbert—with a grimace—and half of the guards.

Then she looked at Mace, a polite smile on her face, and made an utterly devastating comment in one of the sweetest voices he had ever heard.

“My sincere apologies for the further delay, Lord Tyrell. But Renly and his foster-brothers haven’t been able to play outdoors for more than a year, and you _must_ know how hard that is on little boys. You have three of your own, do you not?”

“…I do, Princess.” He croaked out finally, ignoring the startled, wry laugh from Lord Leyton and the choking noise elicited from Paxter. In fact, he stubbornly ignored the reactions of everyone within earshot.

“Wonderful!” She said brightly, and looked toward the parley pavilion the Reach had set up. “I see the chivalry of the Reach is still to be lauded as well, my lords.” Mace was speechless, and even the sober Lord Stannis seemed to be amused as he looked at his grandmother admiringly.

Before he could recover himself, Lady Aemma captured his arm, while Lady Baratheon captured a sputtering Paxter’s. Lord Leyton seemed to be the only one entirely pleased with the Lady on his arm as they made their way to the pavilion in that manner.

* * *

Several hours later, Mace had a headache. He had expected a _surrender_ , not the combination of a hammer and honey-coated venom.

At this point, the only thing he was certain of was that Princess Rhaelle did not support the rebellion. And that his goodfather was _definitely_ flirting with her. When he began thinking fondly of having his mother here to aid in negotiations, Mace knew it was time to call a break.

He was rubbing the bridge of his nose, and gingerly sipping at hot cider when Paxter joined him in holding up one of the poles.

“ _Someone_ learned politics and strategy from her father and uncles.” Mace laughed tiredly.

“I think you’ve forgotten the history Mother insisted on the Maesters telling us. No, Princess Rhaelle learned her acumen from Queen Betha and her brother Prince Daeron.” Paxter blinked.

“The Pirate Prince of the Stepstones?”

“The same.”

“The prince Aunt Olenna broke her betrothal with?”

“Indeed. You’re rather hung up on this, aren’t you?” Paxter glared at him.

“Excuse me for needing a few moments to let it sink in that Princess Rhaelle was taught politics by one of the most fearsome naval powers of our age, the same man who could have been my uncle.” Mace shook his head at his goodbrother, but didn’t say anything.

“Lord Tyrell?” He looked over to meet the cool eyes of Lord Stannis.

“Lord Stannis,” he said, nodding in acknowledgement. The young lord beat around no bushes, taking the acknowledgement as permission to bluntly muscle his way forward.

“My lord, what do you actually get out of this siege?” Mace blinked at him.

“Pardon?” Lord Stannis seemed to almost be rolling his eyes.

“I understand you are intending to follow the law of the kingdom, my lord. But my uncle Lord Rogar is fighting for the Crown.” Mace didn’t precisely have a response, as there was no falsehood to either statement. Lord Stannis paused, seemingly needing a moment to gather his next words, grinding his teeth—as if he was not pleased with what he would have to say next. Mace tried not to sigh as he realized his goodfather, Princess Rhaelle, Lady Aemma, and Lady Baratheon had all drifted over. _Of course_ the young lordling would jump straight back into negotiations.

“I wouldn’t suggest you make reparations in the food you have denied us, my lord. But there is no way in which this siege benefits you in the long run.” Mace grimaced, knowing very well what Lord Stannis was spelling out.

“Please elucidate,” he nonetheless gritted out. Lord Stannis’ mouth twitched, perfectly indicating he knew that Storm’s End now had Mace’s men by the balls.

“If the crown succeeds in putting down the rebellion, Lord Rogar will not be pleased to see the state of his family, nor to find you responsible, Lord Tyrell.” The lordling paused for greater effect, his eyes glinting. “However, if my brother wins, well. You know our words, my lord.”

 _Our is the fury indeed_ , Mace thought balefully, not even bothering to hide his glare. Though Lord Stannis was bluffing, his bluff was more truth than not. For that reason, he kept his mouth shut as the lordling added with a smug tone,

“But I am sure you know all of that already, Lord Tyrell.”

Still, he was relieved when Princess Rhaelle stepped in. It wouldn’t help now to lose his temper at the heir to Storm’s End.

“Everything is out in the open now, my lords. We should be able to come to an agreement now, should we not?” She asked sweetly. Mace forcibly squashed his temper down.

* * *

In the end, no one was completely happy with the results, meaning, of course, that the negotiations had ended as well as they could have. Cousins were exchanged between House Tyrell and House Baratheon. An agreement of fostering Garlan at Storm’s End and Renly at Highgarden when the war ended was written down. And most importantly, Lord Stannis and Mace’s younger sister Janna were betrothed.

Mother was going to _murder_ him. On the other hand, Lady Aemma was one of those coming back to Highgarden, and Lord Leyton would back him up. _Somehow_ , they’d wear Mother down.

Still, he was uneasy about how Lord Baratheon or King Aerys would react to such an alliance. After all, both were known for their tempers. Though he frequently sighed about this on the way back to Highgarden, Mace _did_ at least feel relief that he would not have to scramble to move his army from the Stormlands if anything went wrong.

And as the days went on, he found himself rather enjoying the company of the Stormish ladies—not in that manner, Alerie would skewer him—for their wit, elegance, and practicality. All but the youngest, Cordela Baratheon—a granddaughter of Ser Harbert—could ride astride, and little Lady Cordela made no complaint about riding in one of the wagons with the other children.

Mace was rather mortified to realize that few of his ladies and lords to be exchanged would be the same when it came to being practical. Oddly, he thought his goodfather’s children would adjust the best, but then, the Hightowers had always been slightly peculiar.

Nothing went majorly wrong—not even a small skirmish—as they made their way back to Highgarden, and his men began to peel off back to their own holdings. Naturally, that meant the raven awaiting them as soon as they stepped foot in the courtyard held especially dark words.

 _To the Lord Paramount Mace Tyrell of the Mander, High Marshal of the Reach,_ the letter began in style of announcements sent off by Maesters,

_Lord Paramount Robert Baratheon of the Stormlands defeated, in single combat, Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen of Dragonstone, heir to the Seven Kingdoms, ending in the latter’s death. The Lord Paramount and his allied forces, foremost that of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North, travel to the capital, to depose King Aerys II Targaryen, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, in favor of a superior claimant._

_In light of the negotiations by Lord Paramount Tyrell with Lord Stannis Baratheon, heir to Storm’s End and the Stormlands, Lord Paramount Baratheon and his allies expect that the Lord Paramount Tyrell will act to best benefit the Realm._

_Writ by the hand of Maester Coleman, Maester to House Arryn_

_Sworn to by Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North_

_Sworn to by Lord Jon Arryn of the Eyrie, Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East_

_Sworn to by Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm’s End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands_

Mace, having read this to his family, resisted the urge to curse. And that was _before_ the rumors about what had happened at the Trident began to spread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The North has a medieval style army: meaning no full-time warriors for the most part; but it also is a much harsher land than much of Westeros, and a long history of warring against each other, the South, and the Free Folk Beyond the Wall, so their forces are smaller but better trained. And there’s more than a few women who are officially part of the army. 
> 
> Sorry, I killed off Randyll Tarly. But well, no one much likes him anyway, and I didn’t want Sam going off to the Night’s Watch since he wouldn’t meet Jon if he did that. 
> 
> My Rhaelle was born in 230 AC (awoiaf has a range b/n 228-233). Ormund was born in or before 234 AC. Considering Rhaelle was sent to be a cupbearer until she was to be married to him, I tend to assume he was older than her. And considering he was probably Lyonel’s son, and Lyonel was born somewhere in or before 194 AC, and had a marriageable daughter likely of age with Duncan (b. 220-224), I ended up making Ormund quite a bit older; born in 218 AC.


	5. Catelyn and Celia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we approach the canon era through the viewpoints of two Tully women

_283 AC—Riverrun, the Riverlands_

Catelyn didn’t know what to think of the rumors coming from the Trident, particularly the ones considering her new husband.

On one hand, the rumors spoke well of Lord Stark, both in his fighting prowess and his honor. The rumors had it that he had built a pyre for Prince Rhaegar with his own hands, and carried the man out of the river himself.

But those weren’t the rumors that bothered her. Not even the rumors of her husband’s viciousness in battle worried her most—for weren’t her father and uncle known for their ruthlessness with arms as well?

No, what bothered Catelyn the most were the rumors of magic. The Maesters were skeptical, even kind young Maester Luwin with his chain link of Valyrian steel, and Catelyn wanted to share in their skepticism. She wanted to believe that true magic was gone from the world, and that if it wasn’t, it would stay far, far away from her and hers. But she couldn’t make herself truly believe that.

Catelyn remembered the times Uncle Brynden would offer blood for scrying, she remembered the one time she had visited him on Bloodstone, and the flickering images she saw at the edges of her vision when she dared to glance at unnerving black pools within its keep. She saw the way her father reacted when he heard the rumors, how he went, not to the sept, but the godswood, the first night the rumors reached them. And most of all, Catelyn herself half-heard words when she walked through the godswood or spent too long by the water. So, even if the rumors had not centered around her husband, Catelyn would not have been able to deny that magic was growing in power once again. Much as she wished to.

Which was what brought her now to the sept. The rainbow-shaded light washed over her, giving little of the comfort it generally did, as she prayed to the Mother and the Crone.

 _Lady of Wisdom and Knowledge, I beg of you, let the hands of fate and power, of magic and the old ways, not weigh too heavily on my family alone, by marriage or blood_ , she asked the Crone, moving to light a candle before the statue whose guise always reminded her of Grandmother Gwynhwyfar, despite her father’s mother being a devout follower of the Old Gods.

 _Lady of Mercy and Protection, I beg of you, look kindly upon my husband, my father, my uncle, my aunt, my…son. Please, let them be protected as well as may be, whatever the future holds._ This candle was lit before the statue whose smile and red-glazed hair made her think with longing of her own mother.

“Cat? The babe’s crying.” She startled slightly, not having heard her sister come in. She attempted a smile as she turned to face Lysa, but her sister frowned, clearly not convinced. Twining one arm around Catelyn’s, Lysa firmly but gently pulled her out of the sept.

They walked through their mother’s garden silently at first, before Catelyn decided to break it.

“Is he truly crying, or did you simply wish to get me out of the sept?” Lysa shrugged, kicking a stone out of her path with one slippered foot.

“He was fussing, but yes, I also wanted to find you. You’ve been disappearing off on your lonesome far too often since we heard about the Trident.” Catelyn winced. She’d been hoping it wasn’t nearly so noticeable. As Lysa looked up at her, her mouth twitched.

“Cat, you couldn’t have hoped to hide everything from _me_ , of all people.” Despite everything, Catelyn laughed, sparking a grin from her sister. It was true. They were far too close for either of them to ever effectively hide most things from each other. She promptly sobered as she remembered the most recent example of that. Lysa, seemingly realizing where her mood had gone, elbowed her, giving her a pointed look.

“I didn’t try to hide _that_ from you, remember? You were _glorious_ losing your temper at Father, by the way. I don’t think I’ve told you that enough yet.” Catelyn sighed.

“Still, Lys. If I had just _noticed_ what was going on, if I had realized how utterly _serious_ Baelish was—” Her sister cut her off.

“Then he would have gone after _you_ , Cat. Aunt Celia helped me realize that. Baelish was obsessed with you. If you had _ever_ given him an in, he would have never stopped pushing.” Her lips twitched. “At least I got adorable twins out of it, with a father who will never interfere with them.” Catelyn knew her smile was a little sad, but at least it was a smile.

It was true, her niece and nephew were adorable. And she would never forgive her father for having almost lost her both Lysa and them before she had ever known what had happened. She was drawn out of her dark thoughts as Lysa shoved her playfully.

“Stop moping Cat, and tell me what you’ve decided to name your babe.” Catelyn shrugged, enjoying how Lysa huffed at her with mock annoyance.

“Tell me, and I’ll tell you the promise I wheedled out of Father.” Catelyn raised a brow, curious, before answering her sister.

“I was thinking Robb, after Lord Baratheon, but since the Trident, that no longer seems quite right. Then, I was thinking a name with history in the Riverlands and the North, but for a boy, that’s rather hard to find. First I thought Rickard, but the pain of losing his father is likely too fresh for that to be comfortable. Then I thought Roger, but—”

“—in other words, you can’t decide?” Catelyn dropped her head into her hands with embarrassment.

“Yes,” she said, slightly muffled. Lysa sounded gleeful as she pulled away one of Catelyn’s hands, and said,

“It’s time to go to the library, then!” Catelyn stared at her, but allowed her sister to tug her along, neglecting to mention that she had already scoured the library.

She realized, once they arrived, Lysa meant to look in the legends and stories, rather than this histories.

After dismissing Joseth for its association with Rhaenyra Targaryen, Desmond because it simply seemed wrong, and Royce for its association with the Boltons, they finally decided on:

“Ronnel Stark, first of his name.”

“He shares a name with a King!” Lysa bubbled.

“An _Andal_ king,” Catelyn pointed out, but smiled at her sister. She laced her fingers with her sister’s, and took the opportunity to be the one pulling Lysa along this time as she said, “Now, I fulfilled your request, so you can tell me what you wheedled out of Father while I feed Ronnel.”

* * *

If she was honest with herself, Catelyn hadn’t expected Father to agree with _anything_ Lysa tried to wheedle out of him these days, let alone allow her to accompany Catelyn North. But when she thanked him, Lord Paramount Hoster Tully grimaced, muttering something about:

“ _Celia_ , that harridan,” before giving her his usual honest smile, and adding,

“Of course I would allow you choice of your ladies to come North, Cate. Just remember that Lord Stark forbid more than twenty.” She curtsied, smiling at her father despite the misgivings that came these days in his presence.

“Thank you, Father. And of course, I remember.” In the end, Catelyn chose far fewer than twenty ladies to accompany her North. She wanted loyal ladies, but also women her husband would have no reason to object to and return to their homes. Lysa, naturally. But also her childhood friends—Marianne Vance, one of the sweetest women she had ever had the pleasure to interact with, Petra Arryn (née Mallister), Tatsiana Blackwood (née Mooton), and Kyra Frey—as well as a few women specifically picked for their connections. Lady Alysanne Blackwood was a cousin of the Starks, and betrothed in the North. Lady Parmona Blackwood was her former governess, and sister to Lord Blackwood. Young Margaery Mooton was the Lord of Maidenpool’s eldest. Barbara Bracken and her paternal aunt Elysa Banefort were a necessary addition with the inclusion of Blackwoods in her party, and had the advantage of being good conversationalists and with a reputation for being mostly pleasant in nature.

The children and husbands of the older women rounded out the group, so it was a rather large entourage that set off North, though most of the guards would be returning to Riverrun within in the year. Catelyn worried about the children undergoing travel during the end of Winter when so many were so young, a worry, she learned later, endeared her to the ladies who had before only known her as the cool, commanding daughter of their (argumentative) liege lord. Still, despite her worry, their journey to Winterfell was as uneventful as such a party could manage. No one died, and there were few injuries or illnesses.

No, it was not until they arrived in the main seat of the North that Catelyn was faced with a true problem.

* * *

_283 AC—The Gates of the Moon, the Vale of Arryn_

Sometimes, Celia had the sincere urge to strangle her husband, much as she had grown to love him. Not as much as she had the urge to strangle either one of her brothers—it was mostly Hoster, if she were honest with herself, which Celia made a habit of being—but it _did_ happen.

Such as when Jon had left her with all the women and children of House Arryn, and an eldest son who was frustrated with being ordered to stay in the Vale by his father.

“Argorn!” She snapped at her son finally. The younger of her twins ducked his head sheepishly, looking slightly bewildered.

“Sorry, Ammî…what am I apologizing for?” Celia sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

“ _Darling_ son of mine. You are making me worry for the state of Vale when you—hopefully far into the future—take over from your father.”

“ _Ammî_!” he protested indignantly, both his red face and the rising octave of his voice briefly making him seem quite a bit younger than his almost thirty years. She opened her mouth to continue explaining why exactly she had snapped at him when the door to Jon’s solar slammed open, revealing Celia’s eldest, waving a letter, with the young Maester to Argorn’s household right at her heels.

Celia blinked at Estela, cocking her head. Apparently _both_ of her eldest children were determined to make their ages seem a falsehood today. At least Estela was still wearing proper mourning for poor young Ser Elbert, though the brief marriage between the two had been one of pure duty.

“Yes, ‘Stela? What could possibly be so urgent you forgot to knock?” she asked archly. Now it her daughter took her turn to blush so deeply the redness of her face rivaled that of her brother just a moment ago.

Estela, however, managed more eloquence than Argorn had, despite her mortification.

“Ammî, they’ve _won_. The Silver Prince is dead, and Lord Stark marches on King’s Landing with his army.” Celia gaped for only a moment before holding her hand out imperiously. “Give me the letter, ‘Stela.” Once she had received it, she added, “Now, go gather the family in my receiving room. Tell them we have received news.” Estela nodded, disappearing with alacrity. After the door had—once again—slammed shut behind her, Celia looked to her son and her son’s Maester. “We will make the official announcement in the Great Hall before the evening meal.” Both men nodded, the Maester making a brief bow to her before leaving for his tower.

As Argorn took her arm politely, Celia patted his in a particularly motherly way, and said,

“On the walk there, we can discuss what you needed to be apologizing for, Argorn.”

He sighed.

“Yes, ammî .”

* * *

Celia cleared her throat, silencing her husband’s extended family as she drew their attention.

“My lord Jon has sent a letter from the Trident.” Suddenly, every wide eye was upon her, and she looked down to hide an amused twitch of her mouth as she shook the folded parchment back open.

“Dearest Celia—if of course, Stela or Argorn have not captured the letter first, and if so: hello, children—” The entire room burst into laughter, while her son and daughter tried to remain dignified despite their reddening faces. Celia didn’t bother to hide her own amusement this time, nor did she bother continuing until the laughter faded.

_…I do not know if this raven will reach you before the more official announcement we had Maester Coleman copy. In the event that it does, I will run the risk of repeating myself. Lord Robert killed the Crown Prince in single combat, though he was grievously injured himself. As the loyalist army then fled in disarray, Robert and I have sent Ned to chase them to the capital. There has been no clear indication that the King has even acknowledged his eldest son’s death, nor where Prince Viserys and his mother abide, that we could discover. I hope to next write you from a secured King’s Landing, my love._

Celia paused, taking a deep, steadying breath before continuing.

_As for the vital news that nonetheless will not be included in the announcement, Turyn was injured—a Dornish barbed arrow to the knee—but is almost certain to survive, though his days of racing Rohan around the Eyrie are over. Rohan himself managed to get a rather nasty slice to his torso, but should heal well if he continues to listen to the Maester. Unfortunately—and please give my apologies to Alys and Earwen—Ser Elys was not so lucky, falling to a Dornish spear. I hope it is some small comfort that he took his killer down with him, though I know it cannot compensate for the loss of a husband and father._

Alys went whiter than the parchment Celia was reading from, while Earwen sat down and promptly burst into tears. Celia’s heart ached for her goodniece. Two babes under the age of five, and now Earwen had neither husband nor father to rely on.

“Shall I continue, or would it be better if we returned to the letter later?” she asked softly.

“No, Aunt Celia. Keep going,” Earwen said in a surprisingly steady, though tear-thick voice. Celia blinked, looking over to Alys, who said not a word, still disturbingly pale even for her complexion, but nodded.

_…I hope you do not think me mad, dearest, but let me ask you a question. Have you heard voices in the waters, or has anything strange occurred in the Godswood of the Gate?_

Celia dropped the letter, her gaze flying around the room as her eyes went wide.

“…Aunt Celia?” It was Lorien, Lady Elesham, who worriedly queried her. Celia rubbed her eyes, shaking her head slightly.

“For over a fortnight, I have heard the screams of the Tears. For the past three nights, I have dreamt of ghosts walking back through the Moon Door. I thought I was going mad, but now, now your uncle writes me _this_?”

“Ammî, I heard some interesting rumors in Gulltown last Seven’s Day,” Argorn said thoughtfully, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen. “I dismissed them at the time, but with Attô’s letter…I wonder if I shouldn’t have.”

“What did you hear?” Celia asked sharply. Her son ran his hands distractedly through his hair as he answered.

“The gossip was half-formed, perhaps because the Prince had just fallen, I now know, but there were whispers of the Trident, that the waters came to life and that wolves were heard to speak as the river filled with rubies.” Before Celia could say a word, her heart chilled at the words, Estela turned on her brother.

“You couldn’t have told us earlier? Before I embarrassed myself racing to Ammî with the letter?” Celia sighed, but neither of them noticed her, Argorn holding up his hands in defense, an expression of consternation writ across his face.

“They were _rumors_ , ‘Stela. I wasn’t going to raise our hopes without confirmation, especially with such an outlandish tale. “

Estela grumbled, but conceded the point.

And with that, her mind somewhat spinning, Celia regained control of the room.

“Everyone,” she said, glancing briefly out the window, “it is approaching the evening meal. We shall make official announcements of our Lord’s survival and the rest of the news then. But…if anyone has been noticing strange things, please find me in the next few days, and I will record our observations in a letter to send to Jon.”

* * *

“Lady Celia.” She turned to her step-daughter, more than slightly startled, having thought she heard everyone leave. Foreboding filled her at Marja’s flat expression, her nerves not helped by a similar blankness of face from her husband, Prince Maegor.

“Marja, what is it?” Her husband’s eldest daughter pressed her lips together, leaning slightly on her husband’s wheeled chair—a legacy of the last Blackfyre rebellion—as if for strength.

“Do you know who Attô will support for King, Lady Celia?” She sat down with a thud as she realized what Marja was asking.

“I…no, I don’t, Marja. My best guess would be that he would push for a Great Council after ensuring the King was deposed.” Surprisingly, though her suggestion had to bring up painful memories for Maegor, her goodson smiled faintly.

“That sounds like Lord Jon, certainly, Lady Celia,” he said in his throaty voice. Marja sighed, somehow managing to make the simple sound give off the impression of supreme irritation.

“But how much control does Father have over his ward, Lady Celia? Prince Rhaegar never should have died. He was not to blame for his father’s cruelty.” Celia stared at her. “Marja, are you saying that Lady Lyanna wasn’t stolen? And that you believe my foster-son will do his best to claim the throne for himself?” Her step-daughter winced, glancing down to meet eyes with Prince Maegor, who took the conversation over from his wife.

“I do not speak often with most of my relatives, Lady Celia, but I share a gift in common with them. ‘Tis why we stayed behind to speak with you. Not—” he added wryly, smiling again, “—because I wish to be King.” Celia blinked at him.

“…do go on,” she said finally. He nodded, clearing his throat.

“I dream of the future, my lady. And sometimes my dreams come true. My aunt, Lady Rhae, taught me to understand my dreams as a child.” Celia shivered, though the fireplace was burning merrily.

“ _What_ did you dream, Prince Maegor?” He sighed, running a hand through his hair, his one and fifty years suddenly abruptly apparent.

“Before Harrenhal, I dreamed of the Lady writing letters, of Prince Rhaegar crowning her at the tourney, of Lord Robert rising in a fury and all the smiles dying as he did. The only thing that did not come true, to my knowledge, was the Lady being unmasked as a fighter in the tourney.” Celia hissed out a breath in shock.

“Why didn’t—”

“—I tell anyone?” He leaned forward, giving her an earnest look. “Lady Celia, before your own experiences, before your husband’s letter, would you have allowed yourself to believe me?”

She opened her mouth in protest before closing it, shaking her head.

“You see my point. I did write letters to my Aunt Rhae, and Cousin Rhaelle, but Aunt Rhae is on the other side of a war. Rhaelle shared my concerns, and we have been writing, but what could the two of us do? I can no longer stand for longer than a few minutes without aid, and Rhaelle was trapped in Storm’s End.” Celia blew out a breath, unable to dispute him, and quietly grateful that he had not simply gone to the loyalist side with his knowledge.

“Thank you for telling me, Maegor. I get the feeling, however, that those were _not_ your only dreams.”

“Your feeling would be correct, Lady Celia,” he said evenly, as he reached up behind him to clasp one of Marja’s smaller hands. “And that is why I know Lady Lyanna was neither stolen nor unwilling. And why I am suspicious of Lord Robert.”

Celia rubbed her eyes tiredly.

“I cannot betray my foster-son or my husband, Maegor.” He gave her a sympathetic smile.

“I know. And neither would I ask Marja to betray her father.”

“Then what do you suggest we do?” He pressed his lips together before blowing out a long breath, his grey eyes darkening.

“ _Survive_. That is what I suggest.” Celia blinked, looking questioningly at her step-daughter, who quirked a humorless smile.

“Maegor and I will write to Attô of his dreams, and my…greensight. But more practically, we must make betrothals for our children _very_ carefully.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “Have you heard, Lady Celia, that Lord Stannis is betrothed to Lady Janna Tyrell? It ended the siege at Storm’s End.”

Celia stared at her step-daughter, her mouth slightly open in shock.

“That rumor is _true_?” Both of them nodded, and she decided not to ask why they were so certain of the reliability of this rumor.

“Well,” she said finally, after a long silence, “I will take your advice, and write to your father with all of that in mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn herself is not magical, except for perhaps a touch of connection to the Old Gods—that she refuses to actively acknowledge—but there is now undeniable bits of magic in the world to those who pay attention (this is also why Jon Arryn heard and saw what Ned did and felt).   
> Catelyn has uh. Changed since Lyanna last saw her. She’s still very pious, but she’s less rigid.   
> Lysa was sent to her Aunt at the Eyrie after Petyr was banished from the Riverlands, and stayed there until Cat’s marriage.   
> There is no canon agreement on when the winter beginning in 280 AC ended. We just know that by the time Daenerys was canonically born in 284, Summer had begun. So I’m going with Spring only being a few moons long, beginning a few days after Catelyn set off for Winterfell, and ending about two moons into 284 AC.   
> Earwen Arryn of House Waynwood is the unnamed wife of Denys Arryn and niece of Jon Arryn. Marja Targaryen of House Arryn is the unnamed daughter of Jeyne Royce and Jon Arryn who was stillborn in canon. I put her birthdate at 240 AC. Lorien Elesham of House Waynwood is the daughter of Alys Arryn and Elys Waynwood who married Lord Elesham. 
> 
> I decided to make the culture of the Vale based on LOTR--honestly, because there's an Arryn named Arwen (yes I'm aware she was an Arryn by marriage, but still.) The words are from Numenorean and Quenya.


	6. Escaping The Capital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, we're back to the main plot now

_283 AC—Blackwater Bay, King’s Landing, the Crownlands_

The city was as quiet as it could ever possibly be, though even from the ships the smell of it was as overpowering as ever. Not even war could stem the stench of King’s Landing.

The three Kingsguard on board, accompanied by Ser Brynden and two of his captains, cautiously went out to hear the rumors first, while the others waited on the edge of the harbor, cloaked by Essosi colors.

They came back with news that was both promising and concerning. The Crown Princess and Princess Rhaenys were as well as they could be, trapped in the Holdfast. Queen Rhaella and Princess Viserys were long gone, likely to Dragonstone.

Many people said that the army of the Westerlands was approaching, ahead of the combined rebel force, which was being led by the Wardens of the North and the East. No one knew the plans of the Warden of the West, but those of the rebels were very clear. To a point, at least. They aimed to throw down King Aerys and replace him with one of the remaining candidates. Declarations had apparently been sent by raven everywhere from the Red Keep to Dorne. The only thing they were vague about was who was to replace Aerys.

The Hand, Lord Chelsted, had been burned alive, and replaced by a Wisdom Rossart. And most bewilderingly, it was rumored that the Crown Princess had been attended for several moons by a lady who looked almost her twin, and that the Crown Prince had left her one last gift before his death, a little, silvery-haired son.

* * *

Brynden lurched forward as Crown Princess Lyanna clenched the guard rail, sinking to her knees as her brown face gained an unhealthy grey tinge.

“ _Varys_ ,” she hissed, her eyes flashing angrily. Brynden blinked at her, aware of the men beside him giving the princess similar glances of confusion.

“Pardon me?” She shook her head slightly, regaining some color.

“Someone fetch the Lady Ashara, and we will explain.”

When the young Lady Stark appeared on deck, she looked rather rumpled and disoriented, clearly torn from her rest. But her manner quickly changed as the princess whispered in her ear.

“First—and this is absolutely nonnegotiable—do not trust Master of Whispers with anything, particularly not with the safety of Princess Rhaenys,” the princess said sternly, Lady Stark flanking her with an equally stern glare. Surprisingly—at least to Brynden—it was Lord Commander Hightower who first questioned the statement.

“Lord Varys? Why? He is Aerys’ creature, sure enough, but he has no reason to destabilize the Royal Family further.”

Crown Princess Lyanna pressed her lips together in a thin, steely line as she glared at the Lord Commander, allowing Lady Stark to speak.

“Lord Varys has his own agenda, Lord Commander. An agenda that does not care about the Royal Family or the rebels. Crown Princess Elia’s ‘twin’ can only be Lady Velaryon, and the babe is either hers or a Blackfyre.”

Brynden hissed out a shocked breath, suddenly understanding, as Ser Arthur did the same beside him. The Lord Commander looked as if he’d been hit in the face with a slab of wood. Clearly, the point had gotten across to him as well.

No more protests were heard as the two women detailed their plan.

* * *

_283 AC—Maegor’s Holdfast, The Red Keep, King’s Landing_

Arthur sincerely wished his sister was staying behind, _safely_ , on the flagship of their little fleet. But he knew very well that the only reason Princess Lyanna was staying onboard was that she was too heavy with her babe to risk traveling through the dark streets and into the Red Keep.

Still, he wasn’t best pleased that Ashara would be his partner for the retrieval of Princess Elia and her small personal household, though he understood the sense behind it. While they went to the Holdfast, Ser Oswell would be ensuring Lord Varys caused no problems, accompanied by half of Ser Brynden’s men. The Lord Commander, Ser Brynden, and the other half of his men, meanwhile, would be retrieving the Royal Treasury.

* * *

“ _Shite_.” Cousin Tanselle blinked at him in shock, in the middle of nursing her youngest son.

“…Cousin Arthur? I thought you were in Dorne, with Princess—” He leaped forward, slapping a hand over her mouth, and speaking quickly and quietly.

“I’m doubting Princess Elia has told you, but we needs must get you and the babe out of her along with her and Rhaenys. There are good reasons, I promise you, ones that Jida Rhae agrees with.” Tanselle relaxed at the last part, and he removed his hand. She stood up, handing him her dozing son while she dusted off her skirts and did up the top of her dress.

“I _was_ wondering why Cousin Aerys had ordered me to the capital while he banished Lucerys back to Driftmark. I should have known he meant nothing good.”

“These days, he rarely does, Cousin.” She nodded in agreement, her expression dark.

“Allow me to throw some things into a sack and fashion a sling for Aethan. Have you chased out the servants?” He grimaced, adjusting the gently fussing Aethan.

“I didn’t see any.” She grimaced back as she flitted around the room before briefly ducking into a room that likely led into bedchambers. When she returned, he asked her,

“Where are the Princess and Rhaenys?” Tanselle frowned as she tucked her son into the sling, the babe promptly dozing off.

“The Maidenvault, most like.” He sighed.

“Ashara headed there, so we will meet them outside the Holdfast. Follow me?”

* * *

_283 AC—the Maidenvault, the Red Keep, King’s Landing_

Ashara froze, causing an unprepared Elia to smack into her from behind. Ser Oswell was staring at a small puddle of blood with a thwarted look, several of Ser Tully’s men dead, injured, or wearing similar expressions.

“Ser Oswell?” she whispered cautiously. The rangy knight looked up, something flashing behind his eyes before he regained his usual expression of mild irritation.

“Lady Stark. Crown Princess. Prince Rhaenys. I am relieved to see you well,” he said formally. Some of the tension tightening Ashara’s shoulders snapped. From behind her, Elia spoke, her voice equally quiet.

“Might I assume that blood belongs to Lord Varys, Ser Oswell?” He snorted, his voice dry as he added,

“You assume correctly, Crown Princess. He will not be waking for several weeks, if that.”

“But...?” Elia asked leadingly.

“But one of his _little birds_ secreted him away through a tunnel as soon as our backs were turned.”

“Then we had best hurry,” Ashara said, finding her voice again.

“Aye, that we should.”

* * *

_283 AC—the Red Keep, King’s Landing, the Crownlands_

“Lord Commander?” Gerold froze, turning around slowly to face the source of the familiar voice. As he had suspected, young Ser Jaime was standing behind him.

Interestingly, the younger man looked ruffled, and semi-dried blood seemed to be splattered across his cloak and tunica. And neither his dishevelment nor the blood seemed to be from the men accompanying Gerold. Sure enough, the Stepstones men had the young Kingsguard surrounded, but at a considerable distance. And none of them had blood on their swords.

Gerold realized Ser Jaime was staring up at him with a rather pleading expression.

“Lad?” He questioned gruffly. Ser Jaime grimaced, and looked to be searching for words. Despite being profoundly aware of the time slipping past them, Gerold didn’t push. Brynden and the rest of the men were busily whittling down the Treasury. He could spare a few moments for a stripling.

“Ser Gerold, my father is approaching the capital.” Gerold raised a brow.

“Aye? That we knew, Ser Jaime.” The boy flushed, and he felt slightly sheepish.

“The King is still convinced Father is coming to his aid.” Gerold tried control his expression. Even if the Crown Princess’ fit onboard the ship hadn’t convinced him of her visions, he would have doubted that Lord Warden Lannister would ever bring arms to aid King Aerys. Not after Ser Jaime’s conscription to the Kingsguard, not after Lord Warden Lannister’s proposal of his daughter for the Crown Prince had been rejected by the King calling him “nothing but a servant.”

From the way Ser Jaime winced, he doubted he’d been entirely successful. The boy cleared his throat, trying to recover himself, before continuing.

“But that isn’t the main problem, Lord Commander. Or at least, it wasn’t. The King…” he paused, his face darkening as he glanced down at the blood drying across his garments. “The King has ordered caches of wildfire planted below the city. For ‘every eventuality’ he said.”

Gerold gaped at him in horrified disbelief. From the shifting of feet around, he wasn’t the only one. Ser Jaime cautiously met his gaze, then, seemingly misinterpreting Gerold’s expression as he began babbling.

“I, he, the King dismissed me, preferring two of his Household Guard for the evening. I went to find Lord Hand Rossart and his cronies. They are dead. But the wildfire is still there. Lord Commander, what do I do?” Gerold sighed, dragging a hand down over his face, just as Ser Brynden came out of the inner Treasury, trailed by multiple men heavily weighed down with gold, silver, jewels, dragon’s glass, and more.

“Lord Commander Hightower, if you and the rest of the men could—” He cut himself off as he saw Ser Jaime, his face going blank. For his part, Ser Jaime was now gaping at Ser Brynden in clear shock.

Gerold sighed. Again.

“Ser Jaime, are you loyal to the Crown Princess? Or the Queen?” The boy’s head snapped back to him so quickly that Gerold, in another situation, would have found humorous.

“ _Of course_ , Lord Commander. The last thing I promised the Prince was to keep his family safe. Including from his father.” Gerold let himself relax slightly.

“Good. If you come with us, Ser Jaime, you will be able to keep that promise.” Ser Jaime’s face brightened, losing some of the tension he carried that was far too much for a boy of seven and ten.

“ _Thank you_ , Lord Commander,” he said earnestly, and this time, Gerold couldn’t keep his mouth from twitching.

“Don’t thank me yet, lad. Help us finish moving out the Treasury, and then we will inform the Crown Princess of the wildfire caches.”

* * *

_283 AC— aboard the Spyglass, leaving Blackwater Bay_

Lyanna burst into tears when Elia stepped aboard the ship, Rhaenys in Ashara’s arms. Unable to hold to decorum—never having had much more time than necessary for it—she ran toward her first beloved. Elia, the taller of them by far, comfortably dwarfed her as she pulled Lyanna into her arms.

“Thank the gods, Lya. I feared I would never set eyes upon you again,” Elia whispered into her hair.

“I feared the same, my love,” Lyanna whispered back before pulling gently away.

She turned to face the others onboard, looking at Ser Tully and Lord Commander Hightower. She blinked in surprise as she saw Ser Jaime standing awkwardly in the men behind them.

“Good Sers, I trust the Treasury has been obtained?” Lord Commander Hightower bowed deeply to her as he said,

“Aye, that it has, Your Graces. And split among our little fleet as well.”

“Excellent. All of you have our deepest gratitude,” she said to the men before her, dismissing Ser Tully’s men, and motioning the Kingsguard toward her. “Now. We shall find the largest cabin while Captain Gallaeron sets sail, and discuss what needs discussing.”

* * *

Elia pushed Lya down into the best chair, despite her protests, and leaned against it. If she sat down now, she was uncertain as to if she would be able to stand back up. Ser Jaime—who she was glad of seeing, if confused to his presence—was set to occupying Rhaenys and Aethan. As Tanselle, Shara, and Ser Tully found their seats, and the Kingsguard arranged themselves about the cabin, Lya slumped. After reassuring herself that her beloved was merely exhausted, rather than unwell, Elia elected to take over the subsequent conversation.

She didn’t know _all_ of the plans and orders that had taken place, but her dreams, deductions, and Shara would help her fill in the gap.

“I am sincerely relieved we all managed to get onboard in one piece. Is there anything troubling I and Crown Princess Lyanna should be informed of?” Arthur and Ser Oswell shared a dark look before her cousin waved at the older Kingsguard to speak.

“Your Graces, Varys was significantly injured, but he was spirited away through the tunnels by some of his spies afore we could end him.” Elia blinked, about to ask why the death of Varys was so necessary, when little Aethan babbled from the corner, drawing her gaze. One of her dreams flashed through her head, accompanied by the memory of Jida Rhae’s last encoded letter she’d received before the escape, and her gorge rose.

“That _is_ an unfortunate loose end,” she said, her voice strained. Ser Oswell nodded, grimacing.

“There were practically no servants throughout the Keep,” Arthur added into the somewhat tense silence. Elia nodded.

“They have been quietly disappearing since the news of the Trident, and I cannot say as I blame them.” _Nor for being frightened of Elia herself, and the powers she had demonstrated upon her husband’s death_ , she added wryly in her mind.

“Your Grace, I—” She looked up at Ser Jaime, who had cut himself off to brace himself as they set sail. She didn’t ask him to begin again until she could see out the cabin window that they were leaving the Blackwater Bay behind.

“Ser Jaime, what is it that you must share with me?” Her unease rose as Ser Tully and Lord Commander Gerold blanched, and Ser Jaime shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “ _Tell me_ ,” she insisted.

“thekinghadwildfiresetincachesunderthecity—” he broke off to take a quick breath “—andIdidn’tknowwhattodosoikilledthepyromancers!”

It took a moment for the meaning behind his rushed words to sink in. Then Elia stared at him in horror as Lya’s shoulders stiffened under her hands, her beloved no longer dozing off. The only response Elia could manage at first was,

“ _All_ of the pyromancers?” Ser Jaime blinked at her before shaking his head.

“No, your grace. Only the ones in the Keep, those who knew the King’s plans.” _A small mercy_ , she thought before asking,

“And you are certain the larger guild did not know of these plans?” He shook his head.

“But Hand Rossart is dead, Your Grace. And he was certainly the mastermind.” Elia pressed her lips together, her thoughts a tangled mess.

“So you do not believe there to be anyone to inform your father of the wildfire, Ser Jaime?” Lya asked, her voice quiet and hoarse. Ser Jaime startled, staring at her, but nodded, his face twisting.

“None he would listen to, you-your Grace.”

* * *

The princesses looked exhausted, Gerold observed as Crown Princess Lyanna relaxed into her seat after Ser Jaime’s answer. Though for once, Crown Princess Elia looked to be more in the bloom of health than her sister-wife.

Now that was a relationship Gerold would _never_ begin to understand. The two princesses had a clear dynamic of amity and understanding, from the manner in which Crown Princess Elia had taken over the debrief when Crown Princess Lyanna flagged, despite the way in which the late Crown Prince had dishonored both ladies at Harrenhal. And it was equally clear that both women had loved Prince Rhaegar.

He shook his head slightly in bemusement, listening with occasional interjections as Lady Stark and Arthur ran down the other matters of which the princesses should be informed.

He didn’t expect to be called back by either of his lady lieges when Crown Princess Elia dismissed the meeting, sending Arthur to inform the Captain to sail for Dragonstone by way of Driftmark.

“Your graces.” He bowed deeply, wondering why Ser Jaime remained.

“Thank you for remaining, Lord Commander. We wished to ask Ser Jaime some questions, but thought he would prefer your presence as we did so.” Gerold blinked, curious, and a little at ill-ease.

“I understand, your Graces. I shall be at the door, Ser Jaime.” The boy gave him a weak smile and nodded rapidly before bowing even more deeply than Gerold had to the two royal women.

By the end, Gerold couldn’t blame the young knight for needing a moment to ground himself, and was absolutely certain as to Jaime Lannister’s loyalty to the women of House Targaryen.


	7. The Dragons Are Born

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dragonstone and dragons

_283 AC—the Isle of Dragonstone, the Crownlands_

Rhaella smiled, eyes stinging with relieved tears as she saw the ships entering the island’s harbor from her solar window. She picked up Daenerys from her portable cradle, smile widening as her daughter babbled happily at her.

“Your family is here, Daenerys. House Targaryen will not die.”

Daenerys merely continued to babble happily, grabbing at a loose tendril of Rhaella’s hair. She laughed, tucking it behind her ear, and secured her babe in a sling made from the wrapping of her palla, and went to gather the household.

* * *

The four women gathered against the ship rail smiled as it began to dock, spotting a familiar, petite white-haired figure standing precisely in the center of the gathered welcoming. Or at least, they all were smiling before their shortest member bent double with a grimace.

“Lya—”

“Lady Lyan—”

“Princess—”

“Perhaps,” Lyanna said through her teeth as she straightened slowly, “it is fortunate that we are arriving today.”

Lady Velaryon—who had been insisting on being called Cousin Tanselle—was the first one to regain control of her wits.

“Corlys, find the captain and the Lord Commander. We needs must dock as soon as possible!” she snapped at her second son, who had been attempting to lurk out of view of his mother. He flushed deeply, but scampered off to follow her orders with only one more glare needed.

Satisfied, she turned back to the other women.

Lyanna was attempting not to crush the rail-sill with her hands as she tried to breath through the contractions. _Gods, why had she ever thought getting pregnant was a good idea?_

Cousin Tanselle snorted, alerting her she must have said the last bit aloud.

“I think everyone who has ever birthed a child thinks that at least once, my royal cousin. And yet we still have them.” Lyanna huffed out a breathless laugh.

“Well no one ever said we make s— _aaaaa_!”

Later, Lyanna would have trouble remembering how and when exactly she disembarked, and how she managed to make it to the birthing room.

Nonetheless, when her clarity returned, she found herself on a bed in a brighter and airier room than she had ever believed the keep at Dragonstone to possess.

To her mortification, she was hard-pressed not to yelp in surprise at the man leaning over her. Lines spread out from the corners of his eyes and the edges of his mouth as he smiled down at her, putting him, to Lyanna’s mind, at her late father’s age at the youngest.

“Your Grace, I am Medicus Valaerys. It is a pleasure to see you awake. Her Majesty Queen Rhaella has bid me to aid your birthing bed.” Lyanna gritted her teeth as another contraction shot through her body.

“You are from Volantis, Medicus?” His face twitched, but he nodded.

“Aye, that I am, your Grace. I was trained in the Great Library Behind the Black Walls. I have delivered many babes during my career, including his Grace Prince Viserys, and the younger two children of his Grace Prince Maegor.” Lyanna shook her head.

“Many thanks for the reassurance, Medicus. I trust your talents, however. I have heard tell of the medicos of the Free Cities and their expertise. I merely do not know what you will have me do.” The Medicus’ face cleared, and he nodded in understanding.

“I see, your Grace. Thank you for the clarification. We have already set up the birthing stool, and the midwife, Mistress Elaene, has situated you properly on the birthing bed. She simply needs to place the hot compresses, and then we must play a bit of a waiting game with your contractions.”

Lyanna groaned, and he gave her a sympathetic smile.

“You are remarkably healthy for the stress you have been under, your Grace. I dare say it shall not take terribly long.”

* * *

Sure enough, seven hours later, her son was born, already properly the King of the Seven Kingdoms—though that was yet to be known by his family.

Lyanna had just barely been allowed to collapse back onto the bed, cradling her newborn son against her breast, when the ladies burst through the door. The men, Lyanna noticed to her amused relief, remained outside.

Medicus Valaerys, cleaning his hands in a basin of water as Mistress Elaene packed up her supplies, raised an amused brow at the crowd of excited, exuberant aristocratic ladies.

“Lya, you are well? And the babe?” Lyanna smiled brightly up at Elia as her beloved reached her bedside, resisting the urge to pat down her sweaty, frizzing hair.

“I am, Elia. No doubt I shall be sore for many days, but I feel in surprisingly good health considering the work this little one just put me through.” Her son opened his mouth, emitting an odd little sound, as if he knew what his mother had just teased him about, and Lyanna laughed quietly.

Elia chuckled along with her before sobering, and holding her arms out for the babe.

“And what is the name of our new son, dearest?”

“Daeron Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, and soon to be third of his name,” Lyanna said, holding back a yawn with great effort, and smiling as Daeron promptly fell asleep in his second mother’s arms. “He adores you already, Elia. A good sign, is it not?” she asked, before succumbing to the second wave of exhaustion that swamped her, following Daeron’s example.

* * *

Three days later, a conference was held in the Chamber of the Painted Table. Crown Princess Lyanna was there primarily by strength of will, as her body was still weak from birth. Still, despite her physical weakness, the lady remained imposing in nature, directing the meeting with an effortlessly commanding air that no one challenged without reason.

“Crown Princess, there is news from the Capital!” Maester Saeron, elder brother to the Lord of the Tides, and Maester of Dragonstone for decades, rushed into the chamber, holding an open letter in his hand.

As Maester Saeron caught his breath, the Crown Princess turned laboriously to face him.

“Do you trust the messenger, Maester?” He nodded, crossing to hand her the unfolded parchment.

“Indeed I do, your Grace. My twin sister, Saeryn, is a merchant on the Essosi Sea, and recently returned to her lodgings in the capital. Much to her surprise, they survived the Sack.” A flinch went around the room, and he grimaced before closing the chamber door and taking a seat.

The Crown Princess stood, one hand holding the letter, the other tightly gripping the cane Medicus Valaerys had produced and bid her use while she recovered from birthing the Crown Prince, and began to read.

* * *

_My dear brother,_

_I have much to tell you now that the Rebellion seems to be winding down. I trust that you will ensure this information is shared with our surviving family—oh, what am I saying? Of course you will._

_Cousin Aerys is dead. No one will admit to how or who, but he is dead. We are finally free of his cruel and capricious nature. Unfortunately, that is the best news I have to tell you._

_While mine own lodgings—and much of the harbor-front—survived what is becoming known as the “Sack of King’s Landing,” most of the city was not quite so fortunate. Lord Warden Lannister and his army reached the capital first, and he was quite clearly seeking revenge. He made no effort to restrain his men in any manner, not even in the highest parts of town, let alone the slums. Flea’s Bottom is still burning, and when I look out the window on my highest floor, I can see the hospital established by his late majesty King Jaehaerys still smoking._

_It is rumored that the Crown Princess Elia and her children were murdered on Lord Lannister’s orders, but I am inclined to doubt that. No bodies have been presented to the usurper attempting to claim Grandfather’s throne._

_Yes, Saeron, you read that correctly. Lord Paramount Baratheon—may the gods curse him—has decided to step on corpses to claim the Iron Throne. He didn’t even_ pretend _to call for a Great Council, despite all of our cousins who have better claim._

_I have heard that he is calling all the lords to swear fealty to him, and that Lord Lannister has already done so, despite the significant absence of his son. Oddly, however, I have not heard any such rumors from the Arryn and Stark camps, despite their close alliance with Lord Baratheon. Combined with young Lord Stannis’ betrothal to Lord Tyrell’s younger sister, this all makes me wonder…_

_Now I am descending into mere conjecture, so I had best end this letter now, I think. Give Luce my love, and please do inform me if our lovely goodsister escaped safely. I do adore Tanselle, and I have had heard nothing of her since arriving._

_All my love,_

_Saeryn_

* * *

When the Crown Princess stopped reading, everyone was staring at her. Dropping the letter upon the Painted Table, she took a deep breath, sharing a look with Crown Princess Elia and Queen Rhaella, before the elder two women nodded, and all three turned back to the room as one.

Queen Rhaella’s voice had a resonance to it that few in the chamber had ever heard from her as she announced,

“I present to you Queens Regent Elia Targaryen of House Nymeros Martell and Lyanna Targaryen of House Stark, reigning in the name of their son, His Grace King Daeron Targaryen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Third of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Will you swear fealty and allegiance to them in his name?”

All in the chamber followed the now Queen Dowager in falling to their knees before the new Queens of the Seven Kingdoms. There were smiles and tears alike on the faces of those present that day. But most of all, in their hearts was relief, relief at the prospect of a sane king taught by such worthy parents.

And in a cradle a few doors away, the newly named King slept peacefully, unknowing of his future duty, smiling toothlessly in a happy dream, watched over by a Dragonstone nursemaid and a young, golden-haired Kingsguard.

* * *

_Five days later_

Elia pulled away from Shara reluctantly, the sheen to her best friend’s eyes mirroring the tears in her own.

“I will miss you greatly, sister.”

“And I you,” Shara said, managing a weak smile that Elia couldn’t bring herself to match.

Elia looked away, chucking little Myriah’s chin to make the toddler giggle. She sighed.

“You are certain all will be well?” Shara opened her mouth, looking uncertain, but Lya broke in, her voice sharp, but not unkind.

“No one can promise that, Elia. But even if Ardek’s new wife is chilly to our sister, she will have Babushka and Benya to rely on, and likely Ardek’s support as well.” She stood on her tip toes to rest her chin on Elia’s shoulder, causing Shara’s mouth to twitch suspiciously, adding, “Asides, I had Maester Saeron send a letter to Babushka, informing her of your marriage and impending arrival, which Elia would have likely remembered if she had not been so caught up in her grief at your leaving.”

Elia sputtered in somewhat mock-offense at her beloved, while Shara’s laugh was full and startled. Lya moved between them, grinning, and pulled them all into a hug until Ser Tully shouted for them to hurry up.

As Shara turned to hurry up the ramp, Lya caught her arm, growing serious.

“Are you certain we cannot convince you to bring along more ladies, Ashara? It would rest my mind to see you with more friendly company.” Shara shook her head, smiling gently.

“I will need to win over the North, as well you know. Even Braavos is closer to the North than Dorne. I cannot afford to offend your people. Not in my position. Asides, Larra and Ysra are some of my closest friends. I will be able to rely on them quite well.” Lya sighed, releasing her.

“Very well, Ashara. Safe travels on your journey.” Shara smiled at her, a familiar wicked glint in her eye.

“To you as well, _my Queen_.” Lya groaned, while Elia herself chuckled.

“My thanks, _Lady Stark_ ,” Lya said pointedly, and Elia shook her head fondly at them both.

After both the flagship Shara would be traveling on, and the small fleet accompanying it, were nothing more than faint dots against the horizon, and the light of the day had begun to fade, Elia turned to her beloved, thoughts sobering once more.

“Are you certain about this, Lya?”

“That it will work? As certain as I can be with dragon dreams. Muña Rhaella dreamt it as well. That cannot be anything but confirmation. Am I as certain that I wish to do it? No.”

Elia sighed, pulling her veil more tightly around her as she shivered, deciding to blame the motion on the brisk sea breeze.

“I feel the same, my love. Are we certain the children must accompany us?” Lya nodded, her expression dark.

“Else we will not succeed. The children are the key, the future. They must participate in this sacrifice.” She reached up to cup Elia’s face gently in her hands. “I am sorry, my love. There is no other way that will not lead to more death.”

“I understand, Lya. But sometimes…I hate when you are right.”

“As do I.”

* * *

The haphazard Royal Court waited anxiously on the combined ships of the Royal Fleet and that of the Pirate Prince. The Kingsguard and family forced to wait while their loved ones and lieges threw themselves into a volcano were the most afeared. Some had argued against this sacrifice until their voices grew hoarse and dried up, among them young Ser Jaime, Maester Saeron, Lady Velaryon, and young Prince Gaegor, who had feared losing his remaining paternal family as he had much of his maternal. But to no avail.

So instead, they stood vigil offshore, hoping that Queen Regent Lyanna’s dreams held true. Hoping that this would not be the last time they set eyes on their family and friends. Hoping that magic was truly returning in a way it had not for centuries.

Years later, not a one of the people on the ships would be able to tell you how long they waited, how long that night _truly_ lasted. But they would all, down to the last sailor, be able to tell you the details of what happened that night.

First, the sea began to boil, though there was no heat rising from it, and the ships were tossed wildly on the unpredictable waves. Then, during a temporary calming of the sea, a cracking boom split the air, louder than any whipcrack, and some fell to the decks in fear. After that, clouds of ash began to clog the air and fall into the sea and the island. People began to cough and cover their mouths and nose.

Later, it would be noticed that none of the ash fell onto the ships themselves, as if something—or some _one_ —was protecting the people on board as best they could. The rocks and lava that covered much of Dragonstone in the eruption never went any further than to the edge of its beaches.

Eventually, after what felt like many hours later, the sea began to truly calm and the sky, though still clogged by ash, began to lighten. Then someone, no one could remember later who, cried out,

“Look! There are people approaching!” Sure enough, through the grey air, figures could be seen approaching, though there was something slightly… _off_ about their silhouettes.

It wasn’t until Prince Daeron, carefully cradling his namesake King in his arms, stepped up to the shoreline, that the nearest ship could see what the reason for the strangeness was.

“ _Dragons_!” Word quickly spread through the fleets, in tones of mixed panic and glee. Dragons were alive again. Fire-breathing, flying lizards, the reason for the successful conquest of the Seven Kingdoms, had returned to the world.

A small, golden drake rested on one of the Prince’s shoulders. On the other, perched a slightly larger drake of red and black. Together, the two drakes were barely bigger than the infant human in Daeron’s arms.

When the Pirate Prince swung back on board, he was grinning with delight, clearly caring not one whit that not a stitch of his clothing had survived the volcano, nor that his black hair was mere fuzz. Lady Velaryon took King Daeron from his arms, her eyes rounding when the red and black drake hopped to her shoulder to join him.

As a quick-minded servant helped Prince Daeron wrap himself in a toga, and the others clambered back on with their own dragons, he began to explain.

“Queen Regent Lyanna truly has a gift. Not a one of us suffered burns nor lacked ability to breathe, though we were submerged in a lake of magma. Somehow, she knew exactly who would survive this, and I am inclined to think the hand of the gods behind that.”

Lady Velaryon stared at him, her mouth dropping open in shock when he added,

“The children, to a one, were delighted, giggling and paddling their arms in the magma.” She was far from the only one to show such shock, but the prince ignored it, continuing, “And _gods_. All of the dragons that my House ever knew must have laid their clutches in the volcano. More baby dragons than I could ever imagine in my life, all awaking at the same moment. And _ours_ , they knew us upon first opening their eyes.”

There were no shortage of awed stares as the Pirate Prince fondly stroked the snout of his golden dragon, and the drake nuzzled into him with a purring sound.

Then something occurred to more than a few people close enough to see the dragons, but Maester Saeron was the first to voice it.

“There are _more_ dragons? What will happen as they grow?” Lord Velaryon answered that question, looking up from his tiny, sea-colored drake.

“Dragons leave their homes only when urged by their humans. If they have no one to bond to, they will stay on Dragonstone.”

Queen Regent Elia cleared her throat, drawing all eyes to her, and somehow managing to appear regal with only a swath of bright fabric covering her body, and her obsidian curls singed to a crisp. Part of that effect might have been due to the fact that she had a drake the color of Valyrian purple perched atop her head.

“There has been much forgotten about dragons, I see. Their viciousness or bloodthirst is affected by their bonded. My Uller grandmother taught me this, as their House learned with the first Rhaenys and her Meraxes. The Good King and his family knew this. Balerion was the Dread because his first bonded warped his nature. No one can entirely mend a warped bond.”

No one was entirely certain this knowledge was reassuring. But when the drakes onboard did nothing more than cuddle with their bonded, some of the tension was released, and the sailors began to lose their fright enough to prepare to set sail as Lord Velaryon and Prince Daeron directed and sent messages to the various captains.

By the time anyone decided to investigate the source of the ash wafting back into the Crownlands, the true rulers of the Seven Kingdoms had long since disappeared from Dragonstone along with their fleets.

And for five years, no one tried to make landfall at the smoking, fiery island of Dragonstone. The furthest they would venture was Driftmark, which was oddly untouched by the volcanic eruption. Anyone who asked the young Lord Monford—taking up his rule following his father’s mysterious disappearance—the reason for Driftmark’s good fortune came away with no answer but that of a serene smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hospital is used in the medieval sense, as a house of general welfare, rather than a medical center.   
> When Saeryn refers to her “Grandfather’s throne,” she is talking about King Maekar, as in this universe, Daella Targaryen married Lord Elaenor Velaryon (Lucerys’ father).   
> Technically, since Vaella and Maegor are descendants of Aegon’s elder brothers, I think you could argue they have a better claim to the throne. Granted, Robert is the grandson of Aegon V, so he is also a viable candidate. Of course, this is all irrelevant, since Daeron is actually the rightful heir to the throne. But at this point, very few people know that.   
> In case it isn’t obvious, Dragonstone was evacuated before the eruption—Elia and Lyanna and the others weren’t going to take any chances with anyone not going to the volcano with them.


End file.
